THE 

JUDGMENT  BOOKS 

BY 
E.F.  BENSON 


V/HARPERS"^ 
8  iLITTLE 
\  NOVELS 


LIBRARY    ] 


V  OF 


THE  JUDGMENT  BOOKS 


THE  JUDGMENT  BOOKS 


B  Stors 


E.  F.  BEXSOX 

AUTUOR     OF     "r»ODO' 
ILLUSTRATED 


•'VflfttOTOH 


NEW     YORK 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

1895 


HARPER'S   LITTLE   NOVELS. 


THE  ROYAL  MARINE.  An  Idyl  of  Narragansett  Pier.  By 
Brandkr  Matthews.     Illustrated  by  VV.  T.  Smidlky. 

A  KENTUCKY  CARDINAL.  By  James  Lane  Allen.  Illus- 
trated by  Albert  E.  Stkrneb. 

AN  AGITATOR.     By  Clementina  Black. 

ST.  JOHN'S  WOOING.     By  M.  G.  McClelland.     Illustrated. 

MINISTERS  OF  GRACE.  By  Eva  Wilder  McGlasson.  Illus- 
trated by  Clifford  Carleton. 

32mo,  Cloth,  Omamevtal,  $1  00  each. 

Published   by   HARPER  &   BROTHERS,  New  York. 

tSff'  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent  by  the  publishers  by 
mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  "/  the  Cnittd  States,  Canada,  or 
Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


Copyright,  1895,  by  Harper  i  Brothers. 
All  rights  reserred. 


THE   JUDGMENT  BOOKS 


CHAPTER  I 

The  terrace  to  the  south  of  Penalva 
Forest  lay  basking  in  the  sunshine  of 
an  early  September  afternoon,  and  the 
very  bees  which  kept  passing  in  and 
out  from  the  two  hives  beneath  the 
laurel  shrubbery  to  the  right  seemed 
going  about  their  work  with  most  un- 
proverbial  drowsiness.  A  flight  of  some 
eight  steps  led  down  from  the  centre  of 
tlie  terrace  to  the  lawn  below,  where  a 
tennis-court  was  marked  out,  and  by 
the  bottom  of  the  steps  ran  a  gravel- 
path  which  sloped  up  past  the  beehives 


to  join  the  terrace  at  the  far  end.  In 
the  gutter  by  this  path  lay  a  tennis- 
ball,  neglected  and  desolate.  Below  the 
lawn  the  ground  sloped  quickly  away 
in  a  stretch  of  stubbly  hay -field,  just 
shorn  of  its  aftermath,  down  to  a  fence, 
which  lav  strairsflino^  alons:  a  line  of 
brown  seaweed  -  covered  rocks,  over 
which  the  waveless  water  of  the  estuary 
of  the  Fal  crept  up  silently  at  high 
tide. 

A  little  iron  staircase,  the  lower  steps 
of  which,  and  the  clasp  which  fastened 
it  to  the  wall,  were  fringed  with  oozy, 
amphibious  growth,  communicated  with 
the  beach  on  one  side  and  the  field  on 
the  other.  Except  for  this  clearing  to 
the  south  of  the  house,  the  woods 
climbed  up  steeply  from  almost  the 
water's  edire  to  the  back  of  a  broad 
Cornish  moor,  all  purple  and  gold  with 
gorse  and  heather,  and   resonant  with 


bees.     Irresponsible  drowsiness  seemed 
the  key-note  of  the  scene. 

At  a  corner  of  the  lawn,  lying  full 
length  on  a  wicker  sofa  beneath  the 
shade  of  the  trees,  lay  Jack  Armitage, 
also  irresponsibly  drowsy.  He  would 
have  said  he  was  meditatino^.  Beino^-an 
artist,  he  conceded  to  himself  the  right 
to  meditate  as  often  and  as  long  as  he 
pleased,  but  just  now  his  meditations 
were  entirely  confined  to  vague  thoughts 
that  it  was  tea-time;  and  that,  on  the 
whole,  he  would  not  have  another  pipe; 
so  he  thrust  his  hands  into  his  coat- 
pockets  and  only  thought  about  tea. 
Perhaps  the  familiar  and  still  warm 
bowl  of  his  favorite  brier  wood  was  re- 
sponsible for  his  change  of  intention  ; 
in  any  case,  it  is  certain  that  he  drew 
it  out  and  began  to  fill  it  with  the  care- 
ful precision  of  those  who  know  that 
the  good  gift  of  tobacco  is  squandered 


if  it  is  bestowed  aiuilcssly  or  carelessly 
into  its  censer. 

lie  had  been  staying  witli  Frank 
Trevor,  the  owner  of  this  delightful 
place,  for  nearly  a  month,  and  he  had 
sketched  and  talked  art,  in  which  he 
disagreed  with  his  host  on  every  ques- 
tion admitting  two  opinions — and  these 
are  legion — all  day  and  a  considerable 
part  of  the  night.  Frank,  who  was 
even  more  orthodox  than  himself  on  the 
subject  of  meditation,  had  finished,  some 
tvv'o  months  before,  the  portrait  at  which 
he  had  been  working;  and,  as  his  habit 
was,  had  worked  much  too  hard  wdiile 
he  was  at  it,  had  knocked  himself  np, 
and  for  the  last  eight  weeks  had  spent 
his  time  in  sitting  in  the  sun  serene 
and  idle.  Jack  was  leaving  next  day, 
and  had  passed  the  morning  in  the 
woods  finishing  a  charming  sketch  of 
the  estuary  seen  through  a  foreground 


of  trees.  At  lancli  Frank  liad  said  lie 
was  going  to  sit  in  the  garden  till  tea- 
time,  after  which  they  were  going  on  the 
river;  but  he  had  not  appeared,  and  Jack 
for  the  last  hour  or  two  had  been  inter- 
mittently wondering  what  he  was  doing. 
At  this  moment  Frank  was  sitting 
in  a  low  chair  in  his  studio  doing  noth- 
ing. But  he  had  been  having  a  rather 
emotional  afternoon  all  by  himself,  see- 
ing little  private  ghosts  of  his  own,  and 
lie  looked  excited  and  troubled.  In  his 
idle  intervals  he  always  kept  the  door 
of  his  studio  locked,  and  neither  went 
in  himself  nor  allowed  any  one  else  to. 
But  this  afternoon  he  had  wanted  a 
book  which  he  thought  might  be  there, 
and  before  he  found  it  he  had  found 
something  else  which  had  raised  all  the 
*ghosts  of  his  Decameron,  and  had  in- 
directly made  him  resolve  to  begin  work 
again  at  once. 


In  Ills  search  be  had  taken  down  from 
the  shelves  a  book  he  had  not  touched 
for  some  years,  and  out  of  its  pages 
there  slipped  a  torn  yellow  programme 
of  a  concert  at  one  of  the  Cafe  Chan- 
tants  in  Paris.  It  went  on  bowing  and 
fluttering  in  its  fall ;  and  as  he  picked 
it  up  and  looked  at  it  for  a  mo- 
ment idly  the  ghosts  began  to  rise. 
There  was  one  ghost  in  particular 
wliich,  like  Moses'  rod,  soon  swallowed 
up  all  the  other  ghosts.  She  had 
been  to  that  concert  with  him  —  she 
had  been  to  other  concerts  with  him  ; 
and  in  another  moment  he  had  cram- 
pled  up  the  momentous  little  yel- 
low programme  and  flung  it  into  the 
grate. 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  for 
a  minute  or  two,  for  the  ghost  was  still* 
visible,  and  then,  by  a  very  natural  ef- 
fect of  reaction,  he  picked  up  the  pro- 


gi-am me  again,  smoothed  it  out,  and  put 
it  back  on  the  tiiblc. 

What  a  hot,  stifling  niglit  it  had  been ! 
Paris  ]aj  gasping  and  choking  as  in  a 
vapor-batli.  They  had  soon  left  the  con- 
cert, and  walked  about  in  the  garden. 
Even  the  moonh'ght  seemed  hot,  and 
every  now  and  then  a  little  peevish 
wind  ruffled  the  tree-tops,  and  then 
grabbed  at  tlie  eartli  below,  raising  a 
cloud  of  stinging  dust  —  a  horrible 
night! 

He  had  left  Paris  next  day  for  a  holi- 
day, and  had  spent  a  month  at  New  Quay, 
on  the  north  coast  of  Cornwall.  How 
restful  and  delicious  it  was!  It  seemed 
the  solution  of  all  difficulties  to  pass 
quiet,  uneventful  days  in  that  little 
backwater  of  life,  away  from  towns 
and  jostling  crowds ;  above  all,  away 
from  Paris — beautiful,  terrible  Paris! 
He  lived  a  good  deal  with  the  artist  set 


tliere, charming  and  intelligent  folk,  "svlio 
prattled  innocently  of  snnsets  and  fore- 
grounds, and  led  a  simple,  healthy  life. 
He  had  fallen  in  love  with  simple, 
healthy  lives;  he  began  to  hate  the 
thought  of  the  streets  and  the  gas  and 
the  glitter  of  Paris.  He  spent  long 
days  on  the  shore  listening  to  the  low 
murmur  of  the  sound-quenched  waves, 
and  Ion  or  nitrhts  with  the  fisher-folks  on 
the  sea,  catching  mackerel.  In  those 
long,  still  hours  he  could  think  that  the 
sea  was  like  some  livino^  thins:,  breatli- 
ing  slowly  and  steadily  in  sleep,  and  he 
a  child  leaning  on  her  breast,  safe  in  her 
care,  alone  with  the  great  tender  mother 
of  mankind. 

One  mornincr — how  well  he  remem- 
bered  it ! — after  a  night  on  the  sea,  he 
had  landed  a  mile  or  so  from  the  village, 
and  had  walked  along  the  shore  alone 
as  the  dawn  was  breaking,  and,  coming 


round  a  little  jutting  promontory  of 
rock,  he  had  found  two  or  three  fisher- 
men who  had  just  pulled  tlieir  net  to 
land,  naked  but  for  a  cloth  round  tlie 
waist,  gathered  round  a  little  fire  they 
had  made  on  the  beacli,  where  they  had 
broiled  a  few  of  their  haul ;  and  as  he 
paused  and  spoke  to  them,  for  they  were 
old  friends,  one  offered  him  a  piece  of 
broiled  fish,  and  another,  who  had  not 
been  out,  but  had  helped  them  to  bring 
in  the  net,  had  brought  down  some 
bread  and  honey-comb,  and  he  ate  the 
fish  and  honey-comb  on  the  shore  of  the 
sea  as  day  broke  .  .  . 

And  it  was  on  that  same  morning  he 
first  met  Margery  his  wife.  She  had 
come  \vith  some  friends  of  his  from 
London  by  the  night  train,  and  they 
were  all  going  down  to  the  bathing-ma- 
chine, after  their  night's  journey,  when 
Frank  arrived  at  the  village.     He  had 


10 


known  at  once  that  the  world  only  held 
one  woman  for  hini. 

Their  days  of  courtship  were  few. 
Within  three  weeks  of  the  time  they 
had  met  Frank  had  proposed  to  her  and 
been  accepted.  One  afternoon,  with 
the  fine,  bold  honesty  of  love,  he  had 
told  her  that  he  had  led  such  a  life  as 
other  men  lead,  that  his  record  was  not 
stainless,  and  that  she  ought  to  know 
before  she  bound  up  her  life  with  him. 
But  Margery  had  stopped  him.  She 
had  said  she  did  not  wish  to  know; 
that  she  loved  him,  and  was  not  that 
enough?  But  Frank  still  felt  that  she 
liad  better  know ;  if  ghosts  were  to 
rise  between  them  it  was  less  startling 
if  she  knew  what  ghosts  to  expect. 
But  she  had  started  as  if  in  pain,  and 
said : 

"  Ah,  don't,  Frank ;  you  hurt  me 
when  yon  talk  like  that.    It  is  dead  and 


11 


past.  All,  I  knew  that.  Well,  then, 
bury  it — let  us  bury  it  together." 

And  he  obeyed  her,  and  buried  it. 

Tie  thonght  over  all  this  as  he  sat 
with  the  crumpled  programme  in  his 
hand.  Was  it  ever  possible  to  bury  a 
thing  entirely?  Had  not  everything 
which  we  thought  dead  a  terrible  facul- 
ty of  raising  itself  at  most  unexpected 
moments?  A  scrap  of  paper — a  few 
words  in  a  printed  book — these  could 
be  the  last  trump  for  a  buried  sin,  and 
it  would  rise. 

He  got  up  olf  the  sofa — these  were 
ugly  thoughts  —  and  went  on  looking 
for  the  book  he  had  come  to  find.  Ah, 
there  it  was  in  its  paper  cover — Dr.  Je- 
kyll  and  Mr.  Hyde.  He  had  bought  it 
on  his  way  down  from  London,  but  had 
not  yet  looked  at  it. 

He  opened  it  and  glanced  at  a  few 
pages;  and  then,  sitting  down  where  he 


12 


had  been  before,  read  the  whole  book 
straiglit  tliroiigli.  He  was  strangely 
excited  and  wronght  upon  by  it,  and 
Iiis  mind  was  beginning  to  grope  in  the 
darkness  after  an  idea.  Yes,  surelj-,  this 
was  the  essence  of  portrait-painting: 
not  to  present  a  man  as  he  was  at  a  par- 
ticular moment,  in  one  particular  part, 
with  the  emblem  of  one  particular  pur- 
suit by  him — an  artist  with  his  canvas, 
a  sculptor  with  his  clay — but  the  whole 
man,  his  Jekvll  and  his  Ilvde  together 
in  one  picture. 

Then  in  a  moment  his  mind,  as  it 
were,  found  the  handle  of  the  door  for 
which  it  had  been  groping  in  darkness, 
and  flung  it  open,  letting  in  the  full 
blaze  of  a  complete  idea.  There  is  oii]y 
one  human  being  on  earth  whom  an}^ 
artist  who  ever  lived  could  paint  com- 
pletely. It  is  only  a  man  himself  who 
wholly  knows  both  the  side  he  turns  to 


tlic  world  and  the  side  he  would  hide 
even  from  himself  but  cannot. 

Frank's  hands  trembled  nervoiisl^y, 
and  his  breath  came  and  went  quick- 
ly. He  would  paint  himself  as  no  man 
yet  had  ever  painted  either  himself  or 
any  one  else.  He  w^ould  put  his  Jekyll 
and  Hyde  on  the  canvas  for  men  to 
wonder  at  and  to  be  silent  before.  He 
would  do  wdiat  no  artist  had  ever  yet 
done.  He  thought  of  that  room  in  the 
Uffizi  at  Florence  which  holds  the  por- 
trait of  the  Italian  families,  each  paint- 
ed by  himself  :  Raphael,  with  his  young, 
beardless  face — Raphael,  the  painter, 
and  no  more  ;  Andrea  del  Sarto,  not 
the  painter,  but  the  liver.  Each  of 
them  had  painted  marvellously  outside 
themselves — one  gift,  one  w\ay  of  love. 
But  he  would  do  more :  he  would  paint 
himself  as  the  husband  and  lover  of 
Margery,   the   Jekyll   of  himself,   who 


14 


Lad  known  and  knew  the  best  capabil- 
ities for  loving  in  his  nature ;  and  he 
Avould  paint  his  Hjde,  the  man  who 
had  lived  as  other  men  in  Paris — a  Bo- 
hemian, careless,  worthless,  finding  this 
thing  and  that  honej  at  the  moment, 
but  to  the  soul  wormwood  and  bitter- 
ness. The  wormwood  should  be  there, 
and  the  honey;  his  love  for  his  wife 
and  his  rejection  and  loathing  of  those 
earlier  days  which  he  had  thought  were 
dead,  but  which  had  risen  and  without 
their  honey.  His  own  face,  painted 
by  himself,  should  be  the  book  out  of 
which  he  should  be  judged ;  for  love 
and  lust,  happiness  and  misery,  inno- 
cence and  guilt — all  unite  their  indelible 
marks  there,  and  no  one  can  ever  efface 
the  other. 

Then,  because  he  felt  he  was  on  the 
threshold  of  something  new,  and  be- 
cause all  men,  the  stronirest  and  weak- 


15 


est  alike,  are  afraid,  desperately  afraid, 
of  everything  which  they  know  noth- 
ing of,  he  became  suddenly  fright- 
ened. 

AYhat  would  this  thing  be?  he  asked 
liiniself.  AVhat  would  happen  to  himself 
when  he  had  done  it  ?  Would  he  have 
raised  his  dead  permanently  ?  Would 
they  refuse  to  be  buried  again  now  that 
he  had  of  his  own  will  perpetuated 
them  in  his  art  ?  And  Margery,  what 
would  she  have  to  say  to  the  ghosts 
she  would  not  allow  him  to  tell  her 
about  ? 

Ent  he  was  not  a  coward,  and  he  did 
not  mean  to  turn  back  because  of  this 
sudden  spasm  of  fright.  He  would 
begin  to-morrow;  he  could  not  help  be- 
ginning at  once,  for,  as  he  often  told 
Margery,  when  the  idea  was  ready  he 
had  to  record  it ;  the  artist's  inexorable 
need  for  expression  could  not  be  gain- 


IG 


said  or  trifled  with.  It  must  come 
out. 

Frank  Trevor  had  a  very  mobile  face, 
a  face  which  his  feelings  played  on 
freely  as  a  breeze  ruffling  a  moorland 
pool  of  water.  II is  dark-gray  eyes,  set 
deep  under  their  black  eyebrows,  were 
kindled  and  glowing  with  excitement. 
In  such  moments  lie  looked  strikingly 
handsome,  though  his  features,  taken 
singly,  were  not  faultless.  Ilis  mouth 
was  too  short  and  too  full-lipped  for 
actual  beauty;  but  now,  as  he  sat  there, 
the  very  eagerness  and  vitality  that  came 
and  went,  as  now  one  aspect  of  his  idea 
and  uow^  another  struck  him,  gave  a 
fineness  to  every  feature  that  made  it 
worthy  of  an  admiration  which  a  more 
perfectly  moulded  face  miglit  well  have 
failed  to  deserve. 

But  there  was  another  fear  as  well,  a 
fear  so  fantastic   that  he    was    almost 


17 


ashamed  of  it ;  but,  as  be  thought  of  it, 
it  grew  upon  him.  He  bad  always  felt 
when  be  painted  a  portrait  that  virtue 
went  out  of  him ;  that  be  put  actually 
a  part  of  his  personality  into  his  picture. 
What,  then,  would  happen  if  be  painted 
bis  own  portrait  completely  ?  He  knew 
his  idea  was  fantastic  and  unreasonable; 
but  the  fear — a  fear  again  of  something 
that  was  new — was  there,  lurking  in  a 
shaded  corner  of  bis  mind.  But  of  this 
be  could  speak  to  Margery,  and  Mar- 
gery's cool,  smiling  way  of  dealing  with 
phantasms  always  had  a  most  evaporat- 
ing effect  on  them.  Of  the  other  fear 
be  bad  wished  to  speak  to  her  once,  but 
she  did  not  wish  to  bear,  and  be  wished 
to  speak  to  her  of  it  no  longer. 

He  looked  at  bis  watch  and  found  it 
was  nearly  tea-time  ;  he  had  been  there 
over  two  hours,  and  he  wondered  to 
himself  whether  it  bad  seemed  more 

2 


IS 


like  two  years  or  two  minutes.  He 
rose  to  go,  but  before  leaving  the  room 
he  took  a  long  look  round  it,  feeling 
that  he  was  looking  at  it  for  perhaps 
the  last  time  ;  at  any  rate,  that  it  could 
never  look  the  same  again. 

''  We  ouly  register  a  change  in  our- 
selves,'' he  thought,  "  by  the  impression 
that  other  things  make  on  us.  If  our 
taste  changes  we  say  that  a  thing  we 
used  to  think  beautiful  is  ugly.  It  is 
not  so — it  is  the  same  as  it  always  was. 
I  cannot  paint  this  picture  without 
changing  myself.  TThat  will  the  change 
be?" 

The  yellow,  crumpled  programme 
and  the  copy  of  Jehjll  mid  Hyde  lay 
together  unregarded  on  the  table. 
When  we  have  drunk  our  medicine  we 
do  not  concern  ourselves  with  the 
medicine -bottle — unless,  like  the  im- 
mortal Mrs.  Pullet,   we  take  a  vague, 


19 


melancholy  pleasure  in  recalling  how 
much  medicine  we  have  taken.  But 
that  dear  lady's  worst  enemies  could 
not  have  found  a  single  point  in  com- 
mon between  her  and  Frank  Trevor. 


CHAPTER  II 

Jack  Aemitage,  as  we  know,  though 
he  was  aware  it  was  tea-time,  was  filling 
his  pipe.  He  had  accomplished  this 
to  his  satisfaction,  and  had  just  got 
it  comfortably  under  way  when  Mrs. 
Trevor,  also  with  tea  in  her  mind,  came 
down  the  steps  leading  from  the  terrace 
and  strolled  towards  him. 

"Where's  Frank?"  she  asked.  "I 
thought  he  said  he  was  going  to  sit 
about  with  yon  till  tea  ?" 

"  He  said  so,"  said  Jack ;  "  but  he 
went  into  his  studio  to  get  a  book,  and 
he  has  not  appeared  since." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  he's  in  the  house," 
she  said.     "  In  any  case  it's  five,  and  we 


21 


slia'ii't  get  more  than  two  hours  on  the 
ri^^er.     So  come  in." 

Jack  often  caught  himself  regretting 
lie  was  not  a  portrait-painter  when  he 
looked  at  Mrs.  Trevor.  She  was,  he 
told  himself,  one  of  the  beauties  of  all 
time,  and  her  black  hair,  black  eyes,  and 
delicately  chiselled  nose  had  caused 
many  young  men  on  the  slightest  ac- 
quaintance to  wish  that  she  had  not 
decided  to  change  her  maiden  name  to 
Trevor.  It  was  also  noticeable  that  as 
their  acquaintance  became  less  slight 
their  regret  became  proportionately 
keener.  Frank  had  done  a  portrait  of 
her,  the  first  that  brought  him  promi- 
nently into  notice,  and,  as  Jack  thought, 
his  best.  By  one  of  those  daring  experi- 
ments which  in  his  hands  seemed  al- 
ways to  succeed,  he  had  represented  her 
a  tall,  stately  figure,  dressed  in  white, 
standing  in  front  of  a  great   Chinese 


screen  covered  with  writhing  dragons 
in  bhie  and  £i:old,  a  niMitmare  of  hide- 
ous  forms  in  wonderful  colors.  It  was 
a  bold  experiment,  but  certainly,  to 
Jack's  mind,  he  had  managed  with  mi- 
raculous success  to  bring  out  what  was 
almost  as  characteristic  of  his  wife's 
mind  as  her  beauty  was  of  her  body, 
and  which,  for  want  of  a  better  word, 
he  called  her  wholesomeness.  The  con- 
trast between  that  and  the  exquisite  de- 
formities behind  her  hit  eyes,  so  to 
speak,  straight  in  the  face.  But  it  hit 
fair,  and  it  was  triumphant. 

Mrs.  Trevor  paused  on  the  edge  of 
the  gravel-path  and  picked  up  tlie  lone- 
ly tennis-ball. 

.  "  To  think  that  it  should  have  been 
there  all  the  time  !"  she  said.  "  How 
blind  you  are,  Mr.  Armitage !" 

Jack  rose  and  knocked  out  his  pipe. 
"  The  Fates  are  unkind,"  he  said.    "  You 


23 


call  me  in  to  tea  just  when  I've  lit  my 
pipe,  and  then  go  and  blame  me  for  not 
finding  the  tennis-ball,  which  yon  told 
me  was  not  worth  while  looking  for." 

'•  I  didn't  know  it  was  in  the  gutter," 
she  said.  "I  thought  it  had  gone  into 
the  flower-beds." 

"  Nor  did  I  know  it  w^as  in  the  gut- 
ter, or  I  should  have  looked  for  it 
there." 

Margery  laughed. 

"  I  wish  you  were  stopping  on  lon- 
ger," she  said,  "and  not  going  to-mor- 
row.    Surely  you  needn't  go?" 

"  You  are  too  kind,  but  the  Fates  are 
still  unkind,"  he  said.  "I  have  already 
put  it  off  a  week,  during  which  time 
my  brother  has  been  languishing  alone 
at  New  Quay." 

"  To  New  Quay  ?  I  didn't  know  yuu 
were  going  there.  Frank  and  I  know 
New  Quay  very  well." 


24 


Frank  was  in  the  drawing-room  when 
they  went  in,  giving  orders  that  the 
studio  should  be  thorouglilj  swept  out 
and  dusted  that  evening. 

"  I'm  going  to  begin  painting  to-mor- 
row," he  announced,  abruptly,  to  the 
others  as  they  came  in. 

Margery  turned  to  Jack. 

"No  more  tennis  for  me  unless  you 
stop,"  she  said.  "  Have  you  ever  been 
with  us  when  Frank  is  painting?  I 
see  nothing  of  him  all  day,  and  he  gob- 
bles his  meals  and  scowls  at  the  butler." 

The  footman  eame  in  again  with  the 
tea-things. 

"And  take  that  big  looking-glass  out 
of  the  spare  bedroom,"  said  Frank  to 
him,  "and  put  it  in  the  studio." 

"  What  do  you  want  a  looking-glass 
for?"  asked  his  wife,  as  the  man  left  the 
room. 

Frank  got  up,  and  walked  restlessly 


25 


up  and  down.  "I  begin  to-morrow," 
lie  said  ;  "  I've  got  the  idea  ready.  I  can 
see  it.  Until  then  it  is  no  use  trying  to 
paint ;  but  when  that  comes,  it  is  no  use 
not  trying." 

"But  what's  the  looking-glass  for?" 
repeated  Margery. 

"Ah,  yes,  I  haven't  told  you.  I'm 
going  to  paint  a  portrait  of  my- 
self." 

"That's  my  advice,"  observed  Mar- 
gery. "I've  often  suggested  that  to 
you,  haven't  I,  Frank?" 

"You  have.  I  wonder  if  you  did 
wisely  ?  Tliis  afternoon,  however,  other 
tliino:s  sne^o^ested  it  to  me." 

"  Have  you  been  meditating  ?"  asked 
Jack,  sympathetically.  "  I've  been  med- 
itating all  afternoon.  "Why  didn't  yon 
come  out,  as  you  said  you  would,  and 
meditate  with  me?" 

"I  had  a  little  private  meditation  of 


26 


my  own,''  said  Frank.  ''  It  demanded 
solitude." 

"  Is  it  bills  ?''  asked  Margery.  "  You 
know,  dear,  I  told  you  that  you'd  be 
sorry  for  paying  a  hundred  guineas  for 
that  horse.'' 

Frank  laughed. 

"Xo,  it's  not  bills — at  least,  not  bills 
that  make  demands  of  cash.  Give  me 
some  tea,  Margy." 

The  evening  was  warm  and  line,  but 
cloudless,  and  after  dinner  the  three  sat 
out  on  the  terrace  listening  to  the  foot- 
falls of  night  stealing  on  tiptoe  in  the 
woods  round  them.  The  full  moon, 
shining  through  white  skeins  of  drift- 
ing cloud,  cast  a  strange,  diffused  light, 
and  the  air,  alert  with  the  coming  rain, 
seen:ed  full  of  those  delicate  scents  which 
are  imperceptible  during  the  day.  Once 
a  hare  ran  out  from  the  cover  across  the 
lawn, where  it  sat  np  for  a  few  moments, 


27 


with  ears  cocked  forward,  until  it  heard 
the  rustle  of  Margery's  dress,  as  she 
moved  to  look  in  the  direction  of  Frank's 
finger  pointing  at  it,  and  then  scuttled 
noiselessly  off. 

They  had  been  silent  for  some  little 
time,  bnt  at  last  Frank  spoke.  He 
wanted  to  tell  Margery  of  his  fantastic 
fear,  that  fear  which  she  might  hear 
about ;  or,  rather,  to  let  her  find  it  out, 
and  pour  cool  common-sense  on  it. 

"  I  feel  just  as  I  did  on  my  last  night 
at  home,  before  I  went  to  school  for  the 
first  time,"  he  said.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  had 
never  painted  a  portrait  before.  I  have 
had  a  long  holiday,  I  know;  but  still  it  is 
not  as  if  I  had  never  been  to  school  be- 
fore.    I  wonder  why  I  feel  like  that?" 

"Most  of  one's  fears  are  for  very 
harmless  things,"  observed  Jack.  "  One 
sees  a  bogie  and  runs  away,  but  it  is 
probably  only  a  turnip  and   a  candle. 


28 


Naturally  one  is  nervous  about  a  new 
thing.  One  doesn't  quite  know  what  it 
ma}^  turn  out  to  be.  But,  as  a  rule,  if 
it  isn't  a  turnip  and  a  candle,  it  is  a 
sheet  and  a  mask.  Equally  inoffensive 
really,  but  unexpected." 

"Ah,  but  I  don't  usually  feel  like 
that,"  said  Frank.  "In  fact,  I  never 
have  before.  One  is  like  a  plant.  When 
one  has  flowered  once,  it  is  fairly  cer- 
tain that  the  next  flowers  will  be  like 
the  last,  if  one  puts  anything  of  one's 
self  into  it.  Of  course  if  one  faces 
one's  self  one  may  put  out  a  monstros- 
ity, but  I  am  not  facing  myself.  Yet, 
somehow,  I  am  as  afraid  as  if  I  were 
going  to  produce  something  horrible 
and  unnatural.  But  I  can't  face  my- 
self; I  can't  blossom  under  glass." 

"  That's  such  a  nice  theory  for  you, 
dear,"  said  Margery,  "especially  if  you 
are  inclined  to  be  lazy." 


29 


Frank  made  a  little  hopeless  gesture 
of  impatience. 

"Lazy,  industrious — industrious,  lazy; 
what  have  those  to  do  with  it?  You 
don't  understand  me  a  bit.  When  the 
time  has  come  that  I  should  paint,  I  do 
so  inevitably ;  if  the  time  has  not  come, 
it  is  impossible  for  me  to  paint.  I  know 
that  you  think  artists  are  idle,  desultory, 
Bohemian,  irregular.  That  is  part  of 
their  nature  as  artists.  A  man  who 
grinds  out  so  much  a  day  is  not  and. 
cannot  be  an  artist.  The  sap  flows,  and 
we  bud ;  the  sap  recedes,  and  for  us  it 
is  winter-time.  You  do  not  call  a  tree 
lazy  in  winter  because  it  does  not  jDut 
out  leaves?" 

"  But  a  tree,  at  any  rate,  is  regular," 
said  Margery;  "besides,  evergreens." 

"  Yes,  and  everlasting  flowers,"  said 
Frank,  impatiently.  "  The  tree  is  only 
a  simile.     But  we  are  not  dead  when 


30 


we  don't  produce  any  more  than  the 
tree  is  dead  in  December." 

Margery  frowned.  This  theory  of 
Frank's  was  her  pet  aversion,  but  slie 
could  not  get  him  to  give  it  up. 

"  Then  do  you  mean  to  say  tliat  all 
effort  is  valueless  ?" 

"  No,  no  !"  cried  Frank  ;  "  the  whole 
process  of  production  is  frantic,  passion- 
ate effort  to  realize  what  one  sees.  But 
no  amount  of  effort  will  make  one  see 
anytliing.  I  could  do  you  a  picture, 
which  you  would  probably  think  very 
prettj^,  every  da}^,  if  you  liked,  of 
'Love  in  a  Cottage,'  or  some  such  in- 
anity." 

Jack  crossed  his  legs,  thoughtfully. 

'*  The  great  objection  of  love  in  a 
cottage,"  he  said,  "is  that  it  is  so  hard 
to  find  a  really  suitable  cottage." 

Frank  laughed.  "A  courageous  at- 
tempt to  change  the  subject,"  he  said. 


31 


"But  Tin  not  going  to  talk  nonsense 
to-night." 

"  I  think  you're  talking  awful  non- 
sense, dear,"  said  Margery,  candidly. 

"  You  will  see  I  am  serious  in  a 
minute,"  said  Frank.  "I  was  saying  I 
could  paint  that  sort  of  thing  at  any  time, 
but  it  would  not  be  part  of  me.  And 
the  only  pictures  worth  doing  are  those 
which  are  part  of  one's  self.  Everj^ 
real  picture  tells  you,  of  course,  some- 
thing about  what  it  represents;  but  it 
tells  you  a  great  deal  about  the  man 
who  painted  it,  and  that  is  the  most  im- 
portant of  the  tw^o.  And  I  cannot — and, 
what  is  more,  I  don't  choose  to — paint 
anything  into  which  I  do  not  put  part 
of  myself." 

^'Mind  you  look  about  the  woods 
after  I've  gone,"  said  Jack,  "and  if  you 
see  a  leg  or  an  arm  of  mine  lying  about, 
send  it  to  me.  Beach  Hotel,  Xew^  Quay." 


Frank  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair 
Avith  a  laugh. 

''Mj  dear  Jack,"  he  said,  "for  a 
clever  man  you  are  a  confounded  idiot. 
^"0  one  ever  accused  you  of  putting  a 
nail- paring  of  your  own  into  any  of 
your  pictures.  Of  course  you  are  a 
landscape-painter — that  makes  a  certain 
difference.  A  landscape-painter  paints 
what  he  sees,  and  only  some  of  that;  a 
portrait-painter  —  a  real  portrait-painter 
— paints  what  he  knows  and  feels,  and 
when  he  paints  the  virtue  goes  out  of 
him." 

"  And  the  more  he  knows,  the  more 
virtue  goes  out  of  him,  I  suppose,"  said 
Jack.  "  You  know  yourself  pretty  well 
— what  will  happen  when  you  paint 
yourself  ?" 

Frank  grew  suddenly  grave. 

"  That's  exactly  what  I  want  to  know 
mvself.     That  was  what  I  meant  when 


33 


I  said  I  felt  like  a  little  boy  going  to 
school  for  the  first  time  —  it  will  be 
something  new.  I  liave  only  painted 
four  portraits  in  my  life,  and  each  of 
them  definitely  took  something  out  of 
me  —  changed  me;  and  from  each  —  I 
am  telling  you  sober  truth — I  absorbed 
something  of  the  sitter.  And  when  I 
paint  myself — " 

'*I  suppose  you  will  go  out  like  a 
candle,"  interrupted  Jack.  "Total  dis- 
appearance of  a  rising  English  artist ; 
and  of  the  portrait,  what?  Shall  w'e 
think  it  is  you?  Will  it  w^alk  about 
and  talk  ?     Will  it  get  your  vitality  ?" 

Frank  got  quickly  out  of  his  chair 
and  stood  before  them.  His  thin,  tall 
figure  looked  almost  ghostly  in  the 
strange  half-light,  and  he  spoke  rapidly 
and  excitedly. 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  am  afraid 
of,"  he  said.     "  I  am  afraid — I  confess 


34 


it  —  I  am  afraid  of  many  things  about 
this  portrait,  and  that  is  one  of  them.  I 
began  to  paint  myself  once  before — I 
have  never  told  even  Margery  this — but 
I  had  to  stop.  But  this  afternoon  sev- 
eral things  made  themselves  irresistible, 
and  I  must  try  again.  I  was  in  bad 
health  when  1  tried  before,  and  one 
evening  when  I  went  into  the  studio 
and  saw  it — it  was  more  than  half  fin- 
ished— I  had  a  sudden  giddy  feeling  that 
I  did  not  know  which  was  me — the  por- 
trait or  myself.  I  knew  I  was  on  the 
verge  of  something  new  and  unknown, 
that  if  I  went  on  with  it  I  should  go 
mad  or  go  to  heaven  ;  and  when  I  moved 
towards  it  I  saw  it — I  did  see  it — take 
a  step  towards  me." 

"  Lookino^-o^lass,"  said  Marirery.  "Go 
on,  dear." 

"  Then  I  was  frightened.  I  ran  away. 
JSTcxt  day  I  came  back  and  tore  the  pict- 


35 


lire  into  shreds.  But  now  I  am  braver. 
Besides,  brave  or  not,  I  must  do  it.  I 
lost  a  great  deal,  I  know,  by  not  going 
on  with  it,  but  I  could  not.  Oh  yes, 
you  may  laugh  if  you  like,  but  it  is 
true.  You  may  even  say  that  what  I  lost 
was  exactly  what  one  always  does  lose 
when  one  is  afraid  of  doing  something. 
One  loses  self-command.  One  is  less 
able  to  do  the  thing  next  time  one  tries. 
I  lost  all  that,  but  I  lost  a  great  deal 
more :  I  lost  the  chance  of  knowing 
what  happens  to  a  man  if  he  parts  with 
himself." 

"Don't  be  silly,  Frank,"  said  Mar- 
gery, suddenly.  "  How  can  a  man  part 
with  himself?" 

"  In  two  ways  at  least.  He  may  go 
mad  or  he  may  die.  I  dare  say  it 
doesn't  matter  much,  if  one  only  has 
produced  something  worth  producing; 
but  it  frightened  me." 


Despite  herself,  perhaps  because  fear 
is  the  most  contagions  of  diseases,  Mar- 
gery felt  a  little  frightened,  too,  abont 
this  new  portrait.     But  she  rallied. 

'•  When  the  time  comes  for  us  to  die 
we  die,"  she  said,  "and  we  can't  help  it. 
But  we  can  all  avoid  being  very  silly 
while  we  live — at  least,  you  can,  and 
you  are  the  case  in  point/' 

Frank  resumed  his  seat,  and  spoke 
less  quickly  and  excitedly. 

"I  know  it  all  sounds  ridiculous  and 
absurd,"  he  said  ;  "  but  if  I  paint  my  por- 
trait as  I  think  I  am  going  to,  I  shall 
put  all  myself  into  it.  It  will  be  a 
wonderful  thing — there  will  be  no  pict- 
ure like  it.  But  I  tell  you,  plainly  and 
soberly — I  am  not  feverish,  yon  may  feel 
my  pulse  if  you  like — that  if  I  paint  it 
as  I  believe  I  can,  something  will  hap- 
pen to  me.  It  will  be  my  soul  as  well 
as  my  body  you  will  see  there.     Ah, 


37 


there  are  a  hundred  dangers  in  the  way. 
What  will  happen  to  me  I  don't  pre- 
tend to  guess.  Moreover,  I  am  fright- 
ened about  it." 

Once  again,  for  a  moment,  Margery 
was  frightened  too.  Frank's  fear  and 
earnestness  were  very  catching.  But 
she  summoned  her  common-sense  to  her 
aid.  Such  things  did  not  happen  ;  it 
was  iiripossihle  in  a  civilized  country 
towards  the  end  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  boy,"  she  said,  "  it  is 
so  like  you  to  tell  us  that  it  will  be  a 
wonderful  thing,  and  that  there  will  be 
no  picture  like  it.  It  will  be  even  more 
like  you,  if,  after  you  have  made  an 
admirable  beginning,  you  say  it  is  a 
horror  and  put  your  foot  through  it, 
vowing  you  will  never  set  brush  to  can- 
vas again.  I  suppose  it  is  all  part  of 
the  artistic  temperament." 


38 


Frank  thonglit  of  liis  other  fear,  of 
which  he  could  not  tell  Margery,  which 
she  had  refused  to  hear  of  before.  He 
laid  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"Margery,  tell  me  not  to  do  it,"  he 
said,  earnestly.  "  If  you  will  tell  me 
not  to  do  it,  1  won't." 

"My  dear  Frank,  you  told  us  just 
now  that  it  was  inevitable  you  should. 
But  why  should  I  tell  you  not  to  do  it? 
I  think  it  would  be  the  best  thing  in 
the  world  for  you." 

"  Well,  we  shall  see.  Jack,  why 
should  you  go  away  to-morrow?  Why 
not  stop  and  be  a  witness?" 

"  No,  I  must  go,"  said  Jack,  "  but  if 
Mrs.  Trevor  will  send  me  a  post-card,  or 
wire,  if  you  show  any  grave  symptoms 
of  o;oino:  to  Heaven  or  Bedlam,  I  will 
come  back  at  once  —  I  promise  that. 
Dear  me,  how  anxious  I  shall  feel ! 
Just  these  words,  you  know:  'Mr.  Trev- 


39 


or  going  to  Bedlam'  or  'going  to  Heav- 
en,' and  I'll  come  at  once.  But  I  must 
go  to-morrow.  I've  been  expected  at 
New  Quay  for  a  week.  Besides,  I've 
painted  so  many  beech-trees  here  that 
they  will  say  I  am  going  to  paint  all 
the  trees  in  England,  just  as  Moore  has 
painted  all  the  English  Channel.  I 
hear  he's  begun  on  the  Atlantic." 

Frank  laughed. 

''I  fear  he  certainly  has  painted  a 
great  many  square  miles  of  sea.  How- 
ever, supposing  they  lost  all  the  Admi- 
ralt}^  charts,  how  useful  it  would  be ! 
They  would  soon  be  able  to  reproduce 
them  from  his  pictures,  for  they  cer- 
tainly are  exactly  like  the  sea." 

"But  they  are  all  like  the  Bellman's 
chart  in  the  'Hunting  of  the  Shark,'" 
said  Margery,  "  without  the  least  ves- 
tige of  land." 

"  What  would  be  the  effect  on  you. 


40 


Frank,"  asked  the  other,  "  if  you  paint- 
ed a  few  hundred  miles  of  sea?  I  sup- 
pose )^ou  would  be  found  drowned  in 
your  studio  some  niorninc,^,  and  they 
would  be  able  to  fix  the  place  where  you 
were  drowned  by  seeing  what  you  were 
painting  last.  But  there  are  difficulties 
in  the  way." 

"He  must  be  very  careful  only  to 
paint  shallow  places,"  said  Margery, 
"where  he  can't  be  drowned.  Oh, 
Frank,  perhaps  it's  your  astral  body 
that  goes  hopping  about  from  picture 
to  picture !" 

"Astral  fiddlesticks!"  said  Frank. 
"  Come,  let's  go  in." 

He  paused  for  a  moment  on  the 
thresliold  of  the  long  French  window 
opening  into  the  drawing-room. 

"But  if  any  one,  particularly  you, 
Margery,"  he  said,  "  ever  mistakes  my 
portrait  for  myself,  I  shall  know  that 


41 


the  particular  fear  I  have  been  telling 
you  about  is  likely  to  be  realized.  And 
then,  if  you  wish,  we  will  discuss  the 
advisability  of  my  going  on  with  it. 
But  I  begin  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER   III 

Akmitage  bad  to  have  at  half-past 
eight  the  next  morning,  for  it  was  a 
ten -mile  drive  to  Truro,  the  nearest 
station,  and  lie  breakfasted  alone.  Rain 
bad  fallen  heavily  during  the  night,  but 
it  had  cleared  up  before  morning,  and 
everything  looked  deliciously  fresh  and 
clean.  Ten  minutes  before  his  carriafre 
came  round  Margery  appeared,  and 
they  walked  together  up  and  down  the 
terrace  until  it  was  time  for  him  to  be 
off.  Margery  was  looking  a  little  tired 
and  worried,  as  if  she  had  not  slept 
well. 

"I  shall  have  breakfast  with  Frank 
in  his  studio  after  you  have  gone,''  she 


43 


said,  "so  until  jour  carriage  comes  we'll 
take  a  turn  out-of-doors.  There  is  some- 
thing so  extraordinarily  sweet  about  the 
open  air." 

"Frank  didn't  seem  to  me  to  profit 
by  it  much  last  night." 

Margery  frowned.  "  I  don't  know 
what's  the  matter  with  me,"  she  said. 
"All  that  nonsense  which  Frank  talked 
last  night  must  have  got  on  my  nerves. 
Don't  you  know  those  long,  half-wak- 
ing dreams  one  has  sometimes  when 
one  is  not  quite  certain  whether  what 
one  hears  or  sees  is  real  or  not?  Once 
last  night  I  woke  like  that.  I  thought 
at  first  it  was  part  of  my  dream,  and 
heard  Frank  talking  in  his  sleep.  '  Mar- 
gery,' he  said, '  that  isn't  me  at  all.  This 
is  me.  Surely  you  know  me.  Do  I 
look  so  terrible  V  " 

"Why  should  he  think  he  looked  ter- 
rible ?"  said  Jack. 


44 


''I  don't  know.  Then  he  went  ram- 
bling on :  ^  I  tried  to  bury  it,  and  you 
would  not  let  me  tell  you.'  Of  course, 
his  mind  must  liave  been  running  on 
what  he  said  yesterday  evening  as  we 
came  in,  for  he  went  on  repeating, 
'Don't  you  know  me?  Don't  you 
know  me?'  And  this  morning  he  got 
up  at  daybreak,  and  I  haven't  seen  him 
since." 

Margery  stopped  to  pick  a  couple  of 
rosebuds  and  put  them  in  the  front  of 
her  dress.  She  had  no  hat  on,  and  the 
light  wind  blew  through  her  hair  with 
a  deliciously  bracing  effect.  She  turned 
towards  the  sea,  and  sniffed  in  the  salt 
freshness  with  wide  nostrils  like  a  young 
thorough-bred  horse. 

"  If  Frank  would  only  be  out-of-doors 
for  two  hours  a  day  while  he  was  work- 
ing, I  shouldn't  mind,"  she  said;  "but 
he  sticks  in  his  studio,  and  then  his  di- 


45 


gestion  gets  out  of  order,  and  he  be- 
comes astral.  And  mj  mother  wants 
us  to  go  to  the  Lizard  to-morrow — 
they've  taken  a  house  for  the  summer 
— -and  spend  a  couple  of  daj^s.  I  think 
I  shall  go,  but  yet  I  don't  like  to  leave 
Frank.  It's  no  use  trying  to  get  him 
to  come." 

"  But  you  aren't  nervous,  are  you  ?" 
asked  Jack.  "  I  thought  you  were  so 
particularly  sensible  last  night.  Frank 
is  awfully  fantastic — he  always  was ;  but 
fundamentally  he's  sane  enough.  Prob- 
ably it  will  be  a  wonderful  picture — lie 
is  usually  right  about  his  pictures — and 
he  will  be  excessively  nervous  and  irri- 
table while  he  is  doing  it,  and  refresh- 
ingly idle  when  it's  done.  That's  the 
way  he  usually  has." 

"  But  it's  an  unhealthy  way  of  doing 
things,"  said  Margery.    "  I  wish  he  was 


46 


"  The  wind  bloweth  where  it  listeth," 
said  Jack,  "and  it  blows  very  often  on 
liirn.     Isn't  tliat  enough?" 

"Well,  then,  I  wish  I  had  a  barom- 
eter," said  she.  "  The  hurricane  conies 
down  without  warning.  But  I'm  not 
nervous — at  least,  I  don't  mean  to  be. 
It  is  just  one  of  Frank's  ridiculous  no- 
tions. All  the  same,  as  he  said  last 
night,  when  he  does  do  a  really  good 
portrait  it  has  a  very  definite  effect  on 
him." 

"In  what  way?    I  don't  understand." 

"Do  you  remember  liis  picture  of 
Mr.  Bracebridge  ?  It  was  in  the  Acad- 
emy the  year  after  his  portrait  of  me, 
though  it  was  painted  first.  You  know 
every  one  said  it  was  wicked  to  paint  a 
thing  like  that  —  that  he  might  as  well 
have  painted  Mr.  Bracebridge  without 
any  clothes   on    as   without   any   body 


47 


''  Without  any  body  on  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  someliow — even  I  felt  it,  and 
I  am  not  artistic — Frank  managed  to 
paint  his  soul.  I  could  have  written  an 
exhaustive  analysis  of  Mr.  Bracebridge's 
cliaracter  from  that  portrait." 

"  And  the  effect  on  Frank  ?" 

"  Mr.  Bracebridge  is  a  charming  man, 
you  know,"  said  Margery,  "  Init  he  is 
really  unable  to  tell  the  truth.  It  sounds 
very  ridiculous,  but  for  six  weeks  Frank 
really  became  the  most  awful  liar." 

Jack  stopped  short. 

^'But  the  thing  is  absurd.  In  any 
case,  what  does  he  mean  by  saying  that 
he  doesn't  know  what  will  happen  when 
he  paints  himself  ?  It  seems  to  me  that 
in  the  case  of  Mr.  Bracebridge,  so  far 
from  Frank  putting  a  lot  of  himself 
into  the  picture,  he  unfortunately  ab- 
sorbed a  lot  of  Mr.  Bracebridge  into 
himself." 


48 


"  Frank  was  quite  unconscious  he  had 
become  a  liar,"  said  Margery ;  "  but  what 
he  means  is  this:  he  put  a  lot  of  his 
o\vn  personality  into  the  picture — real- 
ly the  whole  thing  is  so  absurd  that  I 
am  ashamed  to  tell  you  about  it — and 
consequently  weakened  himself,  or,  as 
he  would  express  it,  emptied  himself. 
And  being  in  this  state,  Mr.  Brace- 
bridge's  little  weakness  impressed  itself 
on  him.  That  certainly  happened,  and 
it  seems  to  me  only  likely.  We  are  all 
affected  by  any  one  with  whom  we  are 
much  taken  up,  but  what  Frank  assumes 
is  the  loss  of  his  own  personality.  That 
is  absurd." 

"Frank  was  like  a  hypnotic  subject, 
in  fact,"  said  Jack — "at  least,  they  say 
that  they  give  themselves  up,  and  sub- 
ject themselves  to  another's  will.  But 
even  then — and,  like  you,  I  think  the 
whole  thing  is  nonsense — how  will  the 


49 


painting  of  his  own  portrait  affect 
him?" 

"  Like  this :  he  puts  his  whole  per- 
sonality into  it  and  receives  nothing  in 
exchange  ;  no  other  personality  will,  so 
to  speak,  feed  him.  Reall}^,  he  is  very 
silly." 

The  sound  of  carriage-wheels  caused 
them  to  turn  in  their  stroll  and  walk 
back  again  to  the  house. 

"  Incidentally,"  asked  Jack,  "  how  did 
he  cease  to  be  a  liar  ?" 

Margery  looked  at  him  openly  and 
frankly. 

"Oh,  by  painting  me.  I  am  very 
truthful." 

"Did  he  absorb  any  other  character- 
istic?" 

"Yes;  he  became  less  fantastic  for  a 
time.  You  see  I  am  very  unimagina- 
tive." 

"  Then   you  had   better  get   him  to 


50 


paint  another  portrait  of  yon  while  he 
is  doing  this.  Won't  that  preserve  the 
bah^nce  i'- 

The  fresh  air  and  snnsliine  were  hav- 
ing their  legitin^ate  effect  on  Margery, 
and  had  sufficiently  cancelled  her  trou- 
bled night.  She  broke  out  into  a  light 
laugh. 

'•  01),  that  would  be  too  dreadfully 
complicated,''  she  said.  "Let's  see — 
what  would  happen  ?  He  would  put 
his  personality  into  both  portraits,  and 
get  back  some  of  mine,  and  so  he  would 
cease  to  be  himself  and  become  a  wa- 
tery reminiscence  of  me.  It's  as  bad  as 
equations.  Really,  Mr.  Armitage,  I  am 
beo^innino^  to  think  vou  believe  in  it 
yourself." 

"Xo,  I  don't;  not  a  bit  more  than 
you  do.  Well,  I  must  say  good-bye  to 
Frank,  and  tell  him  not  to  become  too 
astral." 


51 


Frank  was  standing  in  front  of  his 
easel  with  the  charcoal  in  his  hand.  He 
had  caught  a  very  characteristic  pose  of 
his  figure  with  extraordinary  success, 
and  Margery  and  Jack  exchanged  a 
rapid  glance  as  they  saw  it ;  for  though 
they  had  both  avowed  that  they  did  not 
believe  a  word  of  "  Frank's  nonsense," 
they  both  felt  it  to  be  a  certain  relief 
when  they  saw  how  brilliantly  Frank 
had  sketched  it  in.  There  was  a  cer- 
tain sureness  about  his  lines  that  seemed 
to  give  both  Bedhim  and  Heaven  a  most 
satisfactory  remoteness.  But  they  both 
noticed  that  Frank  had  drawn  the  face 
alread}^  and  erased  it,  and  it  was  only 
represented  by  a  few  half-obliterated 
lines. 

Frank  did  not  look  up  when  tliey 
entered,  and  Jack  crossed  the  room  to 
Iiim. 

"  Fm  just  off,"  he  said,  seeing  that 


52 


the  other  did  not  look  up,  •'  and  I've 
come  to  say  good-bje.  I've  enjoyed 
my  visit  enormously — quite  enormous- 

ly." 

Frank  started  and  winced  as  if  he  had 
been  struck,  and,  looking  up,  saw  Armi- 
tage  for  the  first  time.  He  drew  his 
hand  over  his  eyes  as  if  he  had  just  been 
awakened  and  his  eyes  were  still  heavy 
with  sleep. 

''Ah,  Jack,  I  didn't  see  yon.  What 
time  is  it?     Where  are  you  going?" 

Even  as  he  spoke  he  turned  to  the 
easel  again  and  went  on  drawing. 

"I'm  going  away,"  said  Jack.  "I'm 
going  to  New  Quay." 

"  Of  course  you  are.  Well,  good-bye. 
Drop  in  and  see  us  at  any  time.  I'm 
very  busy,"  and  he  was  lost  in  his  work. 

Jack  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Don't  overdo  it,  old  boy,"  he  said. 
"You  soon  knock  up,  you  know,  if  3'ou 


53 

don't  take  exercise.  And  it  \Yon't  be 
lialf  so  good  if  you  slave  at  it  all  day. 
Half  the  artistic  sense  is  good  diges- 
tion." 

"  No,  I'll  be  very  careful,"  said 
Frank,  half  to  himself.  "Take  your 
hand  awa}^  please;  I'm  drawing  in 
that  piece." 

"I  shall  tell  them  to  send  breakfast 
in  here  at  once,  Frank,"  said  Margery. 
"I'm  going  to  have  breakfast  here  with 
you." 

Frank  made  no  reply,  and  the  two 
left  the  room  together.  Armitage  was 
suddenly  loath  to  go,  but  the  carriage 
was  at  the  door,  and  it  was  obviously 
absurd  to  stop  just  because  —  because 
Frank  had  talked  a  great  deal  of  non- 
sense tlie  evening  before,  and  had  made 
a  wonderfully  clever  sketch  of  himself, 
but  for  some  reason  had  been  dissatis- 
fied with  the  drawing  of  the  face.   Some- 


51 


how  that  little  point  interested  him,  and 
he  wanted  to  assure  himself  that  no  sig- 
nificance was  to  be  attached  to  it.  Be- 
sides, Frank  was  in  better  hands  than 
liis,  for  he  left  behind  him  this  splen- 
didly sensible  woman,  a  sort  of  apotheo- 
sis of  common-sense,  in  whom  that  rare 
but  prosaic  virtue  became  something 
keen  and  subtle.  She  had  said  that  she 
thought  all  this  idea  of  Frank's  about 
his  personality  was  ridiculous.  Be- 
sides, she  could  always  telegraph  to 
Xew  Quay. 

That  obliterated  face  had  caught  Mar- 
gery's attention  as  well  as  his,  and  as 
they  walked  down  the  corridor  to  the 
front  door  she  said  : 

''  Did  you  notice  that  Frank  had 
drawn  in  the  face  and  then  rubbed  it 
out  f 

"Yes;  I  wondered  if  you  had  noticed 
it  too." 


55 


"Why  do  yon  think  he  did  that?" 
asked  Margery. 

"  I  don't  know ;  I  suppose  it  didn't 
satisfy  him." 

Margery  frowned. 

"  I  don't  know  either.  Frank  is  usu- 
ally so  rapid  about  tlie  drawing.  And 
he  always  draws  the  face  as  soon  as  he 
has  got  a  few  of  the  lines  of  the  body 
in.  Really  I  don't  know,  only  I  no- 
ticed it." 

But  just  before  Jack  drove  off  an  im- 
pulse prompted  him  to  say,  "Beach 
Hotel,  New  Quay,  you  know.  I  will 
be  sure  to  come  if  you  telegraph." 

"  Yes,  many  thanks.  I  shall  remem- 
ber. It  is  very  good  of  you  to  promise 
to  come  at  once;  but  I  don't  think  it's 
very  likely,  you  know,  that  I  shall  tele- 
graph.    Good-bye." 

Margery  waited  till  the  carriage  dis- 
appeared between  the  trees,  and  then 


56 


went  in  to  tell  them  to  send  breakfast 
to  the  studio  at  once.  And  as  she 
walked  back  there  she  allowed  to  her- 
self, with  her  habitual  honesty,  that 
her  will  was  in  collision  with  her  incli- 
nations. She  had  a  great  gift  of  forc- 
ing herself  to  do  anything  which  her 
will  told  her  she  had  better  do.  In 
dealing  with  other  people  also  her  will 
asserted  its  predominance,  and  if  it  was 
in  collision  with  theirs  they  had  been 
heard  to  remark  that  she  was  obstinate, 
while  if  it  went  in  harness  with  them 
they  said,  "  Dear  Margery  is  so  firm !" 
and  congratulated  themselv^es  and  her. 
And  when,  as  on  this  occasion,  her  will 
was  in  collision  with  her  own  inclina- 
tions, it  exhibited  itself  in  a  splendid 
self-control. 

She  felt  a  trifle  lonely  and  inadequate 
when  she  saw  Armitage  drive  off;  but, 
as  she  told  herself,  her  sense  of  loneli- 


57 


ness  and  inadequacy  were  not  due  to 
the  fact  that  she  was  frightened  at 
being  alone  with  Frank  and  his  ghostly 
enemies,  but  because  she  had  deter- 
mined to  fight  tliose  ghostly  enemies; 
to  force  Frank,  as  far  as  in  her  la}^,  to 
paint  the  portrait  of  himself,  and  fin- 
ish it  at  all  costs.  This,  she  persuaded 
herself,  would  be  a  real  and  final  defeat 
of  his  fantastic  tendencies,  his  irregu- 
larity, his  fits  of  complete  laziness  when- 
ever ideas  did  not  beat  loud  at  the  door 
of  his  imagination.  It  was  absurd  to 
sit  at  home  and  wait  for  the  idea  to 
call ;  art  had  to  look  for  ideas  in  all 
sorts  of  places.  And  it  was  with  a  fine 
show  of  justification  that  she  said  to 
herself  tliat  many  of  his  wild  ideas 
would  be  routed  if  she  could  only  make 
him  go  through  with  this  portrait,  and 
see  him  stand  in  front  of  the  finished 
work  and  say,  "  It  is  all  I  ever  hoped  it 


58 


would  be,  and  I  am  still  a  sane  man." 
Surely  if  she  could  help  in  any  way 
to  make  him  do  that,  it  would  be  no 
slight  cause  for  self -congratulation. 
Genius  was  often  bitter,  but  Frank 
was  not  that ;  more  often  it  was  fan- 
tastic, and  Frank  should  be  fantastic  no 
longer. 

"  AVhat  harm  can  come  to  him 
through  this?"  she  reasoned.  "I  am 
quite  sure  " — already  she  liked  to  tell 
herself  she  was  quite  sure — "  that  he 
will  not  lose  his  personality,  because 
such  things  do  not  happen.  That  he 
will  be  awfully  savage  and  silent  while 
he  is  painting  I  fully  expect ;  but  that 
does  not  matter.  What  does  matter  is 
that  he  should  see,  when  it  is  finished, 
what  a  goose  he  has  been." 

Breakfast  had  just  been  brought  in 
when  Margery  returned  to  the  studio, 
but  Frank  was  still  workino^.     She  sat 


59 


down  at  once  and  beo:an  to  make 
tea. 

"  You'd  much  better  have  your  break- 
fast now,"  she  said,  "  and  go  on  work- 
ing afterwards;  but  I  suppose,  as  usual, 
you  will  let  everything  get  cold  and 
nasty.  Eggs  and  bacon  and  cold  grouse. 
I'm  going  to  begin." 

Margery  helped  herself  to  eggs  and 
bacon,  and  poured  out  some  tea;  but  she 
had  scarcely  caught  the  flavor  of  her 
first  sip  when  Frank  suddenly  left  his 
canvas  and  sat  down  by  her. 

"  I'm  tired,"  he  said,  "  and  my  hand 
is  heavy." 

"It  will  be  lighter  after  breakfast," 
said  Margery,  cheerfully.  "Eat,  Frank." 

"No,  I  shall  eat  soon.  I  want  to  sit 
by  you  and  look  at  you.  Margery  dar- 
ling, what  a  trial  it  must  be  to  have  me 
for  a  husband !" 

There    was    something  very  wistful 


GO 


and  patlietie  in  liis  voico,  and  Margery 
felt  moved. 

"All,  Frank,"  she  said,  ''I  don't  find 
it  so." 

Frank  was  lookini]:  at  her  with  easfer 
ej'es,  as  a  dog  looks  at  his  master, 
lie  had  taken  up  her  hand,  and  was 
stroking  it  gently  with  his  long,  ner- 
vous fingers.     Suddenly  he  jumped  up. 

"I  see,  I  see,"  he  said.  "I  have  been 
drawing  something  that  wasn't  me  at  all. 
I  can  do  it  now.  Margery,  will  you  come 
and  stand  very  close  to  me,  so  that  when 
I  look  in  the  glass  I  can  see  you  too  ?" 

Margery  rose  from  her  half -eaten 
breakfast,  and  went  across  the  room 
to  where  his  easel  was. 

"So?"  she  said. 

Frank  picked  up  the  charcoal,  and 
began  drawing  rapidly.  In  ten  minutes 
he  had  done  what  he  had  been  trying 
to  do  for  the  last  two  hours. 


61 


*'  There,"  lie  said,  "  that  is  your  hus- 
band. And  now  go  back  to  yonr  break- 
fast, Margery.  I  must  begin  to  paint 
at  once !" 

Margery  looked  at  the  face  he  had 
drawn. 

"Wh}^,  it  is  you,"  she  said.  "And, 
Frank,  you  look  just  as  you  looked 
when  I  met  you  that  morning  on  the 
beach  at  New  Quay." 

"  That  is  what  I  mean,"  said  Frank. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Margery  finished  her  breakfast  with 
a  sense  of  relief.  She  wanted  this  por- 
trait to  be  done  quickly  and  easily, 
without  incident  or  difficulty,  and  the 
fact  that  Frank  had  completely  got  over 
his  odd  inability  to  draw  the  face  as 
he  wished  was  very  encouraging.  She 
left  a  parting  injunction  with  him  to 
eat  his  breakfast  before  lunch,  and  take 
himself  out  for  half  an  hour's  stroll. 

Frank  got  his  palette  ready  and 
stood  brush  in  hand.  He  glanced  at 
his  own  reflection  in  the  looking-glass 
and  back  to  the  face  on  tlie  canvas,  then 
back  again. 

"  It  is  very  odd,"   he  murmured   to 


63 

himself.  "I  saw  it  so  clearly  just 
now." 

He  stood  looking  from  one  to  the 
other,  and  a  frown  gathered  on  his 
face.  When  Margery  had  been  thei-e 
with  him  he  had  seen  something  quite 
different  to  what  he  saw  now.  He 
had  seen  himself  as  she  saw  him,  but 
the  face  which  frowned  back  at  him 
from  the  looking-glass  was  the  face  of 
another  man. 

He  laid  the  palette  and  the  dry 
brushes  down,  and  took  a  piece  of  paper 
and  began  drawing  on  it.  Line  for 
line  he  reproduced  the  face  he  had 
drawn  earlier  in  the  morning,  which  he 
had  erased  once. 

"It  is  no  good,"  he  said;  "I  must 
draw  what  I  am,  not  what  Margery 
thinks  me."  And,  taking  apiece  of  bread- 
crumb from  the  breakfast  -  table,  he 
rubbed  out  the  face  which  he  had  drawn 


64 


wlien  Margery  was  standing  at  his  side. 
He  looked  again  at  the  sketch  he  had 
made.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  draw 
it  any  other  way.  The  eyelids  were  a 
little  drooped  ;  the  whole  face  a  little 
faded,  but  still  eager.  The  noises  of  a 
gay  city  were  in  its  ears ;  the  eyes,  half 
unfocussed,  looking  outward  and  a  lit- 
tle sideways,  were  half  amused,  half 
wearied.  The  mouth  smiled  slightly, 
and  the  lips  were  parted;  but  the  smile 
was  not  altogether  wholesome.  But 
through  it  all  the  face  had  a  wistful  ex- 
pression— the  tired  eyes  seemed  to  long 
for  somethino:  different  from  the  thino^s 
which  were  sweet  and  bitter  and  bad, 
but  had  not  the  strength  to  cease  from 
looking  on  them. 

Frank  took  np  his  crayon  again. 
There  was  still  something  about  the 
mouth  which  did  not  satisfy  him.  He 
looked  at  his  reflection  and  back  ao:aia 


65 


several  times  before  he  saw  what  was 
wanting.  Then  he  made  two  rapid 
strokes,  increasing  the  line  of  shadow  in 
the  mouth,  and  the  thing  was  finished. 
The  expression  he  had  tried  to  catcli  for 
so  long  was  there,  and  he  wondered 
whether  Margery  would  see  it  with  the 
same  eyes  as  he  did. 

Later  in  the  morning  Margery  strolled 
into  the  studio  again,  expecting  to  find 
him  painting.  He  was  drawing  busily 
when  she  entered,  and  did  not  look  up. 
The  face  which  she  had  seen  him  draw 
at  breakfast -time  was  gone,  and  some 
faintly  indicated  lines  of  another  face 
had  taken  its  place.  Frank  always  drew 
with  extreme  care,  but  usually  with  great 
rapidity,  and  to  her  eyes  he  seemed  to 
have  done  nothing  since  she  had  left  him. 

"  Well,  how  goes  it  ?"  she  asked. 

"  It  goes  slowly,  but  I  am  working 
very  carefully,"  he  said. 


60 


He  stood  away  from  tlie  portrait  and 
let  her  see  it.  He  had  strengthened 
the  outline  since  she  had  been  in  at 
breakfast,  and  sketched  in  the  back- 
ground. 

"  Why,  it's  splendid !"  she  said.  "  That's 
exactly  the  way  you  loll  on  the  edge  of 
the  table.  Frank,  it's  awfully  good.  But 
why  have  you  rubbed  out  the  face  ?" 

Frank  looked  up. 

"Ah,  yes;  I  rubbed  it  out  directly 
after  3'ou  left  me,  and  made  a  sketch  of 
what  it  was  going  to  be  like,  and  I  for- 
got to  put  it  in  again.  I'll  do  it  now. 
There  is  a  great  deal  of  careful  work 
about  the  hands,  too." 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?"  asked  Mar- 
gery, examining  them.  "  It  looks  as  if 
you  were  smoothing  out  a  crumpled 
piece  of  paper." 

"  Ah,  you  think  that  ?"  said  Frank, 
absentl3\     "  I  wondered  if  you  would 


67 


think  I  was  crumpling  a  piece  of  jDaper 
up." 

"  Oh  no,"  said  she,  confidently  ;  ^'yoii 
are  smoothing  it  out.  What  does  it 
mean?  What's  the  paper — a  programme 
or  something?" 

"  Yes,  a  programme  or  something." 

He  emphasized  the  faint  lines  on  the 
face,  and  again  stood  aside. 

"  Look !" 

''Oil,  Frank,  that  won't  do  at  all.  You 
look  as  if  you  were  a  convict  or  some- 
thing horrible,  or  as  if  that  piece  of  pa- 
per in  your  hands  was  an  unpaid  bill 
which  you  were  trying  not  to  pay." 

Frank  lauo^hed  a  little  bitter  lauo^h. 

"  My  drawing  has  been  very  success- 
ful," he  said. 

Margery  was  still  looking  at  the  face. 

"It  is  horrible,"  she  said.  "Yet  I 
don't  see  where  it  is  wrong.  It's  very- 
like  you,  somehow." 


68 


She  looked  from  the  picture  to  her 
husband,  and  saw  tliat  his  face  was  puz- 
zled and  anxious. 

"  I  see  what  it  is,''  she  said.  "  You've 
been  worrvino^  and  orrowlincr  over  it  till 

^  kD  ~  ~ 

your  face  really  began  to  look  some- 
thing like  what  you  were  drawing.  Oh, 
Frank,  you  haven't  had  breakfast  yet. 
Sit  down  and  have  it  at  once.  It  all 
comes  of  having  no  breakfast." 

"  Is  that  all,  do  you  think  T'  asked  he. 
"Is  that  the  face  of  a  man  who  is  only 
guilty  of  not  eating  his  breakfast?  It 
looks  to  me  guilty,  somehow." 

"  Yes,  that's  why  it's  guilty.  Your 
face  is  guilty,  too.  When  you've  eaten 
your  breakfast  and  smoked  that  horrid 
little  black  pipe  of  yours,  it  won't  look 
guilty  any  more." 

Frank  was  looking  at  what  he  had 
done  with  the  air  of  a  disinterested 
spectator. 


60 


''It  seems  tome  that  that  brute  there 
has  done  something  wor.^e  than  not  eat 
liis  breakfast,"  lie  said. 

"Nonsense.  I'm  going  to  get  you 
some  fresh  tea  because  this  is  cold,  and 
there's  that  sweet  little  cold  grouse  d}^- 
ing,  so  to  speak,  to  be  eaten.  You  begin 
on  it  while  I  get  the  tea." 

Frank  felt  exhausted  and  hungry-,  and 
he  sat  down  and  proceeded  to  cut  the 
"  sweet  little  grouse  "  of  which  Margery 
had  spoken.  He  had  a  strange  sense  of 
having  just  awakened  from  a  dream,  or 
else  having  just  fallen  asleep  and  begun 
dreaming.  He  could  not  tell  which 
seemed  the  most  real — the  hours  he  had 
just  spent  before  the  canvas,  or  the 
present  moment  with  Margery  in  his 
thoughts.  He  only  knew  that  the  two 
were  quite  distinct  and  different. 

Suddenly  he  dropped  his  knife  and 
fork  with  a  crash,  and  turned  to  the 


picture  again.  Yes,  there  was  no  doubt 
about  it.  There  was  a  curious  look  in 
the  lines  of  the  face,  especially  in  the 
mouth,  which  suggested  guilt ;  and  jet, 
as  Mai'gery  had  said,  it  was  very  like 
him. 

Margery's  fears  and  doubts  had  re- 
turned to  her  for  a  moment  with  re- 
newed force  as  she  looked  at  the  face 
Frank  had  drawn,  but  she  had  spent 
an  hour  out-of-doors,  and  the  fresh  au- 
tumn air  had  been  hellebore  to  fantastic 
thoughts,  and,  by  a  violent  effort,  she 
had  torn  her  vague  disquiet  out  of  her 
mind,  and  her  manner  to  Frank  had 
been  perfectly  natural.  She  soon  re- 
turned with  a  teapot  of  fresh  tea,  and 
chatted  to  him  while  he  breakfasted. 

"What  part  of  your  personality  has 
gone  this  morning?"  she  asked.  "It 
seems  to  me  that  you  are  just  as  sulky 
as  you  always  are  when  you  are  paint- 


71 

ing.  That's  unfortunate,  because  this 
afternoon  we  play  tennis  at  the  Fortes- 
cues',  and  if  you  are  sulky,  why,  there'll 
be  a  pair  of  yon — you  and  Mr.  F,  Oh, 
but  what  a  dreadful  man,  Frank  !  I  don't 
love  him  one  bit  more  than  one  Chris- 
tian is  bound  to  love  another,  and  he's 
a  Presbyterian  at  that !" 

"  Oh,  I  can't  go  to  the  Fortescues'," 
said  Frank.  "  I  want  to  get  on  with 
this.  I've  been  working  very  hard,  yet 
I  haven't  finished  drawing  it  yet." 

"  Don't  interrupt,"  said  Margery. 
"  Then  we  come  home  after  tea,  and 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Greenock  dines  with  us, 
and  the  Rev.  Mrs.  —  particularly  the 
Rev.  Mrs." 

"  There  are  some  people,"  said  Frank, 
"  wlio  make  me  feel  as  I  imagine  rab- 
bits must  feel  when  they  find  a  ferret 
has  been  put  into  their  burrow — I  want 
to  run  away." 


72 


"  Yes,  dear,  I  know  exactly  what  you 
mean.  She's  got  plenty  of  personal- 
ity." 

Margery's  presence  was  wonderfully 
soothino^  to  Frank.  She  carried  an  at- 
mosphere  of  sanity  about  with  her 
which  could  not  fail  to  make  itself  felt. 
He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  thought 
no  more  of  the  portrait. 

"Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  yon,"  she  went 
on.  "Mother  wants  us  both  to  come 
over  to  the  Lizard  and  stay  with  her  a 
couple  of  nights.  She  leaves  on  Thurs- 
day, you  know,  and  I've  hardly  seen 
her." 

"I  can't  possibly  go,"  said  Frank. 
"  I  can't  leave  my  painting  when  Fve 
only  just  begun  it." 

"  I  wish  you'd  come,"  said  Margery. 

"  Margery,  how  silly  3'ou  are  I  I 
couldn't  possibly.  But — but  there's  no 
reason  why  you  shouldn't  go." 


73 


He  suddenly  sprang  up. 

"  Margery,  tell  nie  not  to  go  on  with 
it,"  he  said,  '\and  if  you'll  do  that  T\\ 
c'ouie.     But  I  can't  leave  it." 

''  Frank,  how  silly  you  are.  I  shall 
do  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  wish  you 
would  leave  it  for  a  couple  of  days  and 
come  with  me,  but  I  know  it's  no  use 
arguing  with  you.  I  shall  go,  I  think, 
for  one  night,  not  for  two  ;  so  if  I  start 
to-morrow  morninf^  I  shall  o^et  back  on 
Friday  evening.  I  must  see  mother 
again  before  she  leaves  Cornwall." 

Frank  walked  back  to  the  easel. 

"What's  the  matter  with  it?"  he 
said,  impatiently. 

"  You've  only  made  yourself  look 
very  cross,  dear,"  said  Margery,  placid- 
ly. "  You  often  do  look  cross,  you 
know,  but  I  should  not  advise  you  to 
paint  yourself  as  cross  as  you  are.  Oh, 
Frank,  Fve  got  a  brilliant  idea!" 


74 


"  What's  that  T 

"  Why,  put  all  the  crossness  out  of 
your  personality  into  the  picture,  and 
then  you'll  never  be  cross  any  niore. 
Oh,  I'm  so  glad  I  thought  of  that !" 

Frank  had  picked  up  the  charcoal 
and  put  a  few  finishing  lines  to  the 
face. 

"  I've  drawn  it  in  carefully  and  free- 
ly, as  if  it  was  a  black-and-white  sketch," 
he  said.  "There,  that's  what  I  saw  all 
morning,  except  just  when  you  were 
breakfasting  here." 

"  Oh,  Frank,  you  do  look  a  brute !" 
said  Margery.  "  I'm  not  going  to  stop 
in  the  room  with  that,  nor  are  you,  be- 
cause you  are  coming  for  a  little  walk  till 
lunch-time.  You  have  to  see  Hooper 
about  mending  that  gate  down  to  the 
rocks,  and  tell  him,  when  he  marks  out 
the  tennis-court,  he  must  do  it  accord- 
ing to  measurement,  and  not  as  his  own 


75 


exuberant  fancy  prompts.  It's  about  a 
hundred  feet  long.     Come  away  out." 

Frank  turned  from  the  eascL 

"  Yes,  I'll  come,"  he  said.  "  I  can't 
get  on  with  that  just  now;  I  don't 
know  why;  but  unless  I  paint  it  as  I  see 
it  I  can't  paint  it  at  all,  and  I  see  it  like 
that." 

"  Well,  nobody  can  say  you've  flat- 
tered yourself,"  said  Margery,  consol- 
ingly. 

They  strolled  out  through  the  sweet- 
smelling  woods,  full  of  scents  after  the 
night's  rain,  and  already  beginning  to 
turn  gold  and  russet.  A  light  mist  still 
hung  over  the  edges  of  the  estuary,  and 
five  miles  away,  at  Falmouth  Harbor, 
the  tall  masts  of  the  ships  seemed  to 
prick  the  skein  of  vapor  like  needles. 
The  tide  was  up,  and  covered  more  than 
half  of  the  little  iron  steps  below  the 
gate  which  had  to  be  repaired,  and  long, 


76 


brown-fin o^ered  sea-weed  swnno;  to  and 
fro  in  tlie  gentle  swell  of  the  water,  like 
tlie  bands  of  some  blind  man  groping 
upward  for  light.  Color,  air,  and  sound 
alike  seemed  subdned  and  mellow,  and 
with  Margery  bj  him  Frank's  phantoms 
seemed  to  catch  something  of  the  pre- 
vailing tranqnillitj',  and  retired  into  the 
dim,  aqueous  mists,  instead  of  hovering 
insistently  round  him,  black  -  winged, 
scarlet-robed. 

"  I  think  I'll  come  to  the  Fortescues', 
after  all,  this  afternoon,"  said  Frank,  as 
tlie}^  turned  homeward. 

"  Why,  of  course  3'ou  will." 

"There's  no  'of  course'  about  it, 
dear,"  said  Frank  ;  "  but  I  feel  as  if  I 
couldn't  paint  to-day." 

"  How  dreadfully  lazy  you  are  !"  said 
Margery, inconsistently.  "You'd  never 
do  anything  if  it  wasn't  for  me.  But 
you  must  promise  to   work  very  hard 


77 


and  sensibly  to-morrow  and  next  day, 
and  when  I  come  back  I  shall  expect  to 
see  it  more  than  half  finished." 

"Sensibly!"  said  Frank,  impatiently  ; 
"there  is  no  such  thing.  All  good  work 
is  done  in  a  sort  of  madness  or  somnam- 
bnlism — I  don't  know  which.  Everj^- 
thing  worth  doing  is  done  by  men  pos- 
sessed of  demons." 

"  The  demon  of  crossness  seems  to 
have  haunted  yon  this  morning,"  said 
Margery.  "  But  yon  needn't  make 
yourself  crosser  than  is  consistent  with 
truth." 

"  But  supposing  I  can't  paint  it  in 
any  other  way  than  what  you  saw  this 
morning?"  asked  Frank.  "  What  am  I 
to  do,  then  ?" 

"  Tliere  !  Now  you  are  asking  my 
advice,"  said  Margery,  triumphantly, 
"  although  you  always  insist  that  I  know 
nothing   about   art.     Why,   of   course. 


you  must  paint  it  as  jou  see  it.  Yuii 
are  forever  saying  tliat  yourself." 

"  Well,  you  won't  like  it,"  said  Frank. 

"  If  you'll  promise  to  eat  your  break- 
fast at  nine  and  your  lunch  at  two,  and 
not  woi"k  more  than  seven  hours  a  day 
and  go  out  not  less  than  three,  I  will 
chance  it.  Mr.  Arniitage  was  so  right 
when  he  said  that  good  digestion  was 
half  the  artistic  sense." 

"  And  the  other  half  is  bad  dreams," 
said  Frank. 

"Xo ;  if  3'ou  have  good  digestion,  you 
don't  have  bad  dreams." 

Frank  walked  on  in  silence. 

"  If  I  only  knew  what  was  the  mat- 
ter with  it,"  he  said,  at  length, "I  could 
correct  it.  But  I  don't,  and  I  think  it 
must  be  right.     It's  very  odd." 

"  It's  not  a  bit  odd  ;  it's  only  because 
you  didn't  eat  your  breakfast.  And 
now  you've  got  to  eat  your  lunch." 


79 


Frank  smoked  a  cigarette  in  his  stu- 
dio afterwards  while  Margery  was  get- 
ting ready.  Soon  he  heard  her  calling, 
and  got  up  to  go.  lie  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment in  front  of  the  portrait  before 
leaving  the  room,  and  a  momentary 
spasm  of  uncontrollable  fear  seized  him. 

"My  God  !"  he  said,  "  she  goes  away 
to-morrow ;  and  I — I  shall  be  left  alone 
with  this !" 


CHAPTER  V 

Fkank  got  through  his  tennis-party 
without  discredit.  Margery's  presence 
seemed  to  have  exorcised — for  the  time 
being,  at  any  rate — the  demon  which  he 
said  possessed  him,  and  there  was  no 
apparent  simihirity  between  liis  nature 
and  Mr.  Fortescue's.  Ease  of  manner 
and  a  certain  picturesqueness  were  nat- 
ural to  him,  and  Margery  found  lierself 
forgetting  the  slightly  disturbing  events 
of  the  last  twenty-four  hours. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Greenock,  wlio  dined 
with  them  that  evening,  were  gifted 
with  oppressive  personalities.  Frank 
once  said  that  he  always  felt  as  if 
Raphael's    clouds    had    descended    on 


81 


liim  when  he  talked  to  this  gentleman. 
Raphael's  clouds,  he  maintained,  were 
very  likely  big  with  blessing,  but  were 
somewhat  solid  in  texture,  and  resem- 
bled benedictory  feather-beds  rather 
than  benedictory  clouds.  The  environ- 
ment of  benediction  was  possibly  good 
for  one  in  the  long-run,  but  he  himself 
considered  it  rather  suffocating  at  the 
time.  Mrs.  Greenock,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  an  example  of  what  Americans  per- 
haps mean  by  a  "  very  bright  woman." 
Slie  was  oppressively  bright.  She  had 
bright  blue  eyes,  which  suggested  but- 
tons covered  with  shiny  American  cloth, 
and  a  nose  like  a  ship's  prow,  which 
seemed  to  cut  the  air  when  she  moved. 
She  asked  artists  questions  about  their 
art  and  musicians  about  their  music, 
and  if  she  had  met  a  crossing-sweeper 
she  would  certainly  have  asked  him 
questions  about  his  crossing.     This,  she 


83 


was  persuaded,  was  tlie  best  way  of  im- 
proving an  already  superior  intellect,  as 
liers  admittedly  was.  There  is  a  great 
deal  to  be  said  for  her  view — there  al- 
waj's  was  a  great  deal  to  be  said  for  her 
views,  and  she  usually  said  most  of  it 
herself.  She  always  made  a  point  of 
saying  that  she  could  remember  any- 
thing you  happened  to  tell  her,  in  order 
to  give  Tom,  or  Harry,  or  Jane  a  really 
professional  opinion  in  case  they  should 
happen  to  ask  lier  questions  on  the  sub- 
ject in  hand.  She  may,  in  fact,  be  de- 
scribed as  a  lioness-woman,  who  bore 
away  all  possible  scraps  to  feed  her 
whelps.  Iler  methods  of  obtaining  the 
scraps,  however,  as  Frank  had  suggested, 
reminded  one  of  a  ferret  at  work.  She 
had  the  same  bright,  cruel  way  of  peer- 
ing restlessly  about. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Greenock  were  loudly 
and    insistently    punctual,    and    when 


Frank  came  into  the  drawing-room  that 
evening  he  found  his  guests  ah-eadj 
there.  Mrs.  Greenock  was  snaj3ping  up 
pieces  of  information  from  Margery, 
and  Mr.  Greenock's  attitude  gave  the 
beholder  to  understand  that  the  blessing 
of  the  Church  liovered  over  this  instruc- 
tive intercourse. 

Mrs.  Greenock  instantly  annexed 
Frank,  as  being  able  to  give  her  more 
professional,  and  therefore  more  nutri- 
tive, scraps  of  intellectual  food  than  his 
wife.  She  had  a  rich  barytone  voice 
and  an  impressive  delivery. 

"I'm  sm-e  you'll  think  me  dreadfully 
ignorant,"  she  said;  "but  when  dear 
Kate  asked  me  when  Leonardo  died  I 
was  unable  to  tell  her  within  ten  years. 
Now,  what  was  the  date  ?" 

"  I  really  could  not  say  for  certain," 
said  Frank  ;  "  I  forget  the  exact  year,  if 
I  ever  knew  it." 


84 


Mrs.  Greenock  heaved  a  sigh  of  re- 
lief. 

"Thank  you  so  much,  Mr.  Trevor," 
she  said.  "  Then  may  I  tell  dear  Kate 
that  even  you  don't  know  for  certain,  and 
so  it  cannot  have  been  an  epoch-making 
year?  AVhen  one  knows  so  little  and 
wants  to  know  so  mnch,  it  is  always 
worth  while  remembering  that  there  is 
something  one  need  not  know.  Now, 
which  would  you  say  was  the  most 
epoch-making  year  in  the  history  of 
Art  ?" 

Frank  felt  helpless  with  the  bright, 
cruel  eyes  of  the  ferret  fastened  on  his 
face,  and  he  shifted  nervously  from  one 
foot  to  the  other. 

•'  It  would  be  hard  to  say  that  any  one 
year  was  epoch-making,"  he  replied ; 
"  but  I  should  say  that  the  Italian  Renais- 
sance generally  was  the  greatest  epoch. 
May  I  take  3'ou  in  to  dinner?" 


85 


Mrs.  Greenock  turned  lier  eyes  np  to 
the  ceiling  as  if  in  a  sudden  spasm  of 
gratitude. 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  telling  me 
that.  Algernon  dear,  did  you  hear 
what  Mr.  Trevor  said  about  the  Italian 
Renaissance?     He  agrees  with  us." 

Mrs.  Greenock  unfolded  her  napkin  as 
if  she  were  in  expectation  of  finding  the 
manna  of  professional  opinion  wrapped 
up  in  it,  and  was  a  little  disappointed 
on  discovering  only  a  piece  of  ordinary 
bread. 

"  And  what,  Mr.  Trevor,  if  I  may  ask 
you  this — what  is  the  subject  of  your 
next  picture  ?  Naturally  I  wish  to  know 
exactly  all  that  is  going  on  round  me. 
That  is  the  only  way,  is  it  not,  of  being 
able  to  trace  the  tendencies  of  Art  ? 
Historical,  romantic,  realistic — what?" 

"  I've  just  begun  a  portrait  of  myself," 
said  Frank. 


Mrs.  Greenock  laid  down  the  spoon- 
ful of  sonp  she  was  raising  to  her  lips,  as 
if  the  mental  food  she  was  receiving 
was  more  suited  to  supply  her  needs 
than  potage  a  la  Ijonne  femme. 

"  Thank  3-011  so  much,"  she  ejacu- 
lated. "  Algernon  dear,  Mr.  Trevor  is 
doing  a  portrait  of  himself.  Kemind 
me  to  tell  Harry  that  as  soon  as  we  get 
home.  Ah,  what  a  revelation  it  will  be  ! 
An  artist's  portrait  of  himself  —  the 
portrait  of  you  by  yourself.  That  is 
the  only  true  way  for  artists  to  teach 
us,  to  show  us  theirselves — what  they 
are,  not  only  what  they  look  like." 

Frank  crumbled  his  bread  with  sub- 
dued violence. 

"  You  have  hit  the  nail  on  the  head," 
he  replied.  "  That  is  exactly  what  I 
mean  to  do." 

Mrs.  Greenock  was  delighted.  This 
was  a  sort  of  testimonial  to  the  superior- 


87 


itv  of  her  intellect,  written  in  the  hand 
of  a  professional. 

^'Please  tell  me  more,"  she  said,  re- 
jecting an  entree. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tell,"  he  said ; 
"  you  have  got  to  the  root  of  the  matter. 
A  portrait  should  be,  as  you  say,  the 
man  himself,  not  what  he  looks  like. 
We  are  often  very  different  to  what  we 
look  like,  and  a  gallery  of  real  portraits 
would  be  a  very  startling  thing.  So 
many  portraits  are  merely  colored  photo- 
graphs. My  endeavor  is  that  this  shall 
be  something  more  than  that." 

"  Yes !"  said  Mrs.  Greenock,  eagerly. 

"  You  shall  see  it  if  you  wish,"  said 
Frank,  "  but  it  will  not  be  finished  for 
a  couple  of  days  yet.  My  wife  goes 
away  to-morrow  for  a  night,  and  as  I 
shall  be  alone  I  shall  work  very  hard  at 
it.     It—" 

Frank  was   speaking    in    his   lowest 


88 


audible  tones,  but  he  stopped  suddenly. 
He  was  afraid  for  a  moment  that  he 
would  actually  lose  all  control  over  him- 
self. As  he  spoke  all  his  strange  dreams 
and  fancies  surged  back  over  his  mind, 
and  he  could  hardly  prevent  himself 
from  crying  aloud.  He  looked  up  and 
caught  Margery's  eye,  and  she,  seeing 
that  something  was  wrong,  referred  a 
point  which  she  or  Mr.  Greenock  had 
been  discussing  to  his  wife.  Meantime 
Frank  pulled  himself  together,  but  reg- 
istered a  solemn  vow  that  never  till  the 
crack  of  doom  should  Mrs.  Greenock  set 
foot  in  his  house  again.  He  and  Mar- 
gery had  had  a  small  tussle  over  the  ne- 
cessity of  asking  the  vicar  to  dinner,  but 
Margery  had  insisted  that  every  one 
always  asked  the  vicar  to  dine,  and 
Frank,  of  weaker  will  than  she,  had 
acquiesced.  Poor  Mrs.  Greenock  had 
unconsciously  launched  herself  on  very 


thin  ice,  and  Frank  inwardly  absolved 
himself  from  all  responsibility  if  she 
tried  the  experiment  again. 

When  the  two  ladies  left  the  room 
Mr.  Greenock's  feather-bed  descents  be- 
gan in  earnest.  It  was  trying,  but  he 
was  less  likely  to  go  in  dangerous  places 
than  his  predatory  wife.  He  would  not 
drink  any  more  wine,  and  he  w^ould  not 
smoke;  but  when  Frank  proposed  that 
they  should  join  the  ladies,  he  said : 

"  It  so  seldom  happens,  in  this  seclud- 
ed corner  of  the  world,  that  I  can  con- 
verse ^vith  men  who  have  lived  their 
lives  in  a  sphere  so  different  to  mine, 
that  I  confess  I  should  much  enjoy  a 
little  longer  talk  with  you." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  you  get  few  visitors 
here,"  said  Frank. 

"  The  visitors  we  get  here,"  said  Mr. 
Greenock,  "  are  chiefly  tourists  who 
are  not  inclined  for  an  interchange  of 


90 


tlioiiglit  and  experience.  Sometimes  I 
see  them  in  our  little  church-yard  where 
so  many  men  of  note  are  buried,  but 
they  do  not  stop.  Indeed,  it  would  in- 
dicate a  morbid  tendency  if  they  did." 

*'I  have  often  noticed  how  many 
names  one  knows  are  on  the  graves  in 
your  church-yard,"  said  Frank. 

"  It  is  a  solemn  thought,"  said  Mr. 
Greenock,  "  that  in  our  little  church- 
yard lies  all  that  is  mortal  of  so  many 
brilliant  intellects  and  exceptional  abil- 
ities. '  Green  grows  the  grass  on  their 
graves,'  as  my  wife  beautifully  express- 
ed it  the  other  day  in  a  little  lyric." 

"  Dear  me,  I  did  not  know  that  Mrs. 
Greenock  wrote  poetry,"  said  Frank. 

"  She  is  a  sonneteer  of  considerable 
power,"  said  the  vicar. 

Frank,  who  had  always  thought  of 
Mrs.  Greenock  in  the  light  of  a  Puritan 
rather  than  a  sonneteer,  gave  a  sudden 


91 


choke  of  laughter.  But  Mr.  Greenock 
was  arranging  his  next  sentence  and  did 
not  hear  it. 

"Her  verses  are  always  distinguished 
by  their  thoughtfully  chosen  similes," 
he  continued,  "  and  their  flow  of  har- 
monious language." 

"You  can  hardly  feel  out  of  the 
world  if  you  always  have  a  poet  by 
you." 

"  The  career  of  a  poet,"  said  Mr. 
Greenock,  "is  alwaj^s  beset  with  snares 
and  difficulties.  On  the  one  hand,  there 
is  the  danger  of  a  too  easily  gained  pop- 
ularity, and,  on  the  other,  the  discour- 
aging effect  of  the  absence  of  an  audi- 
ence." 

"I  am  sure  I  can  guess  to  whicli 
danger  Mrs.  Greenock  is  most  exposed," 
said  Frank,  rather  wildly. 

"  You  are  pleased  to  say  so,"  said  the 
vicar,  with  an  appreciative  wave  of  his 


92 


hand.  "In  point  of  fact,  some  verses 
of  liers  which  have  appeared  from  time 
to  time  in  a  local  paper  have  attracted 
much  not  unmerited  attention.  She  is 
preparing  a  small  volume  of  verse-id jls 
for  publication." 

Mr.  Greenock  rose,  as  if  further  in- 
terchange of  thought  and  experience 
could  not  but  be  bathos  after  this,  and 
Frank  and  he  joined  the  ladies. 

Mrs.  Greenock  was  seized  with  sen- 
sitiveness when  she  heard  that  Frank 
had  learned  about  the  forthcoming 
verse  -  idyls,  but  soon  recovered  suffi- 
ciently to  make  some  very  true  though 
not  very  original  remarks  on  the  beauty 
of  the  moonlit  sea,  and  pressed  Frank  to 
tell  her  whether  any  one  had  ever  paint- 
ed a  moonlit  scene.  Frank  cast  a  glance 
of  concentrated  hatred  at  the  unoffend- 
ing moon,  and  proceeded  to  answer. 

"In  this  imperfect  world,'-  he  said, 


93 

''it  would  surely  be  too  much  to  expect 
that  we  can  convince  any  one  else.  It 
is  sufficient  if  we  can  convince  ourselves. 
What  on  earth  does  the  opinion  of  the 
fooh'sh  crowd  matter  to  an  artist  ?  Their 
praiseisalmostmoredistastefulthan  their 
censure.  Have  you  ever  seen  a  critic?  I 
met  one  once  at  dinne*',  and — God  for- 
give him,  fori  cannot — he  admired  my 
pictures.  He  admired  them  all,  and  he 
admired  them  for  the  wrong  reasons. 
He  admired  just  that  which  was  intel- 
ligible to  him.  He  added  insult  to  in- 
jury by  praising  them  in  one  of  those 
penny-in-the-slot  journals,  as  some  one 
says.  No  man  has  a  right  to  criticise  a 
picture  unless  he  knows  more  about  Art 
than  the  man  who  painted  it.  Carry 
conviction  to  any  one  else?  Wait  till 
the  day  when  your  poems  seem  ugly  to 
you,  when  all  you  write  seems  common- 
place and  trivial  ;  you  will  not  care  about 


94 


convincing  other  people  then.  You  will 
say, '  It  is  enough  if  I  can  write  a  line 
which  seems  to  nie  only  not  execrable.' 
Extremes  meet,  and  contentment  comes 
only  to  those  who  know  nothing  or  who 
nearly  know  all." 

Mrs.  Greenock  stared  at  him  in 
amazement.  This  w\as  not  at  all  her 
idea  of  the  cultured,  refined  artist,  the 
man  who  would  say  pretty  things  in 
beautiful  language,  and  ask  to  borrow 
the  Penalva  Gazette  wdiich  contained 
lier  poem  on  "A  Corner  in  a  Country 
Church-yard."  She  drew^  on  her  gloves 
as  if  to  shield  herself  from  a  blustering 
wind. 

Frank,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  felt  an  evil 
pleasure  in  the  shock  he  had  given  her. 
lie  had  spoken  without  malice  afore- 
thought, but  the  malice  certainly  came 
in  when  he  had  finished  speaking. 
What  right  had  this  verse-idyl  woman 


to  tell  him  what  a  portrait  should  be,  to 
speak  to  him  of  that  which  he  hardly 
dared  think  of  himself,  and  drag  his 
nightmare  out  on  to  the  table-cloth  ? 

His  voice  rose  a  tone  as  he  went  on. 

"  You  call  one  thing  pretty,  another 
ugly,"  he  said.  "Believe  me,  Art 
knows  no  such  terms.  A  thing  is  true 
or  it  is  false,  and  the  cruelty  of  it  is  that 
if  we  have  as  much  as  a  grain  of  false- 
hood in  our  whole  sense  of  truth,  the 
thing  is  worthless.  Therefore,  in  this 
picture  I  am  doing  I  have  tried  to  be  ab- 
solutely truthful ;  as  you  said  at  dinner, 
I  have  tried  to  paint  what  I  am  with- 
out extenuation  or  concealment.  Would 
you  like  to  see  it?  You  would  prob- 
ably call  it  a  hideous  caricature,  because 
in  this  terribly  cruel  human  life  no  man 
knows  what  is  good  in  him,  but  only 
what  is  bad.  It  is  those  who  love  us  only 
who  know  if  there  is  any  good  in  us — " 


96 


His  voice  sank  again,  and  as  his  eye 
rested  on  Margery  the  hardness  soft- 
ened from  his  face  and  it  was  trans- 
formed. 

"Dear  me,  I  have  been  talking  a  lot 
of  shop,  I  am  afraid,"  he  said  ;  '  but  I 
have  the  privilege  or  the  misfortune — I 
hardly  know  which — to  be  terribly  in 
earnest,  and  I  have  committed  the  un- 
pardonable breach  of  manners  to  make 
you  the  unwilling  recipient  of  my  ear- 
nestness. Ah,  Margery  is  going  to 
sing  to  us." 

Poor  Mrs.  Greenock  felt  as  if  she 
had  asked  for  a  little  bread  and  been 
pelted  with  quartern  loaves.  She  felt 
almost  too  sore  and  knocked  about  to 
eat  it  herself,  much  less  to  put  pieces  in 
her  pocket  for  Tom  and  Harry  and 
Jane.  But  the  fact  that  Margery  was 
singing  made  it  natural  for  her  to 
be  silent,  and  she  finished  putting  on 


97 


lier  gloves,  and,  so  to  speak,  tidied  her- 
self up  again.  In  fact,  before  they  left 
she  had  recovered  enough  to  be  able  to 
thank  Frank  for  the  extremely  interest- 
ing conversation  thej  had  had,  and  to 
remind  him  of  his  promise  to  show  her 
the  picture. 

"  I  will  send  you  a  note  when  it  is 
done,"  said  he.  "Margery  is  going 
away  to-morrow  for  the  inside  of  two 
days,  and  I  expect  it  will  be  finished  in 
three  or  four  days  at  the  most." 


CHAPTER  VI 

Maegeey  left  early  next  morning, 
since,  by  the  ingenious  and  tortuous 
route  pursued  by  the  Cornish  lines,  it 
was  a  day's  journey  from  Penalva  to 
the  Lizard.  Frank  drove  with  her  to 
the  station,  and  promised  to  do  as  he 
was  told,  and  not  work  more  than  seven 
hours  a  da}'  and  not  less  than  four.  He 
had  quite  recovered  his  equanimity,  and 
spoke  of  the  portrait  without  fear  or 
despair.  But  when  they  got  in  sight  of 
the  station,  and  again  when  a  puff  of 
white  steam  and  a  thin,  shrill  whistle 
came  to  them  as  they  stood  on  the  plat- 
form, through  the  blue-white  morning 
mist,  a  terror  came  and  looked  him  in 


99 


the  face,  and  lie  clung  to  Margery  like 
a  fi-ightened  child. 

"  Margery,  you  will  come  back  to- 
morrow, won't  you  ?"  he  said.  "  Ah, 
need  you  go  at  all  ?" 

Margery  was  disappointed.  She  had 
thought  that  Frank  had  got  over  his 
fantastic  fears,  he  had  been  so  like  him- 
self during  the  drive.  But  she  was  ab- 
solutely determined  to  go  through  with 
this.  To  yield  once  was  to  yield  twice, 
and  she  would  not  yield.  Frank  must 
be  cured  of  this  sort  of  thing,  and  the 
only  way  to  cure  him  was  to  make  him 
do  what  he  feared — to  make  him  give 
himself  absolute  final  evidence  that  per- 
sonalities did  not  vanish  away  before 
portraits  like  ghosts  at  daybreak.  But, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  Frank's  fear  was  the 
fear  he  had  not  spoken  to  her  of.  The 
danger  of  losing  her  swallowed  up  the 
danger  of  losing  himself. 


100 


''  Oh,  Frank,  don't  be  a  fool !"  she 
said.  "Here's  the  train.  Have  you 
had  my  bag  Labelled  ?  Of  course  I  shall 
be  back  to  -  morrow.  Good  -  bye,  old 
boy !" 

And  with  another  whistle  and  puff 
of  steam  the  train  was  off. 

Frank  drove  home  again  like  a  man 
possessed.  Margery  had  gone,  and  there 
remained  to  him  only  one  thing,  and 
until  he  was  with  that  time  ran  to  waste. 
The  horses,  freshened  by  the  cool,  clean 
air,  flew  over  the  hard  road,  but  Frank 
still  urged  them  on.  As  soon  as  they 
drew  up  by  the  door  Frank  jumped 
down,  leaving  the  reins  on  their  backs, 
and  went  to  his  studio.  There  in  the 
corner  stood  his  worst  self,  and  he  set 
to  work  in  earnest.  To-day  there  was 
no  waiting,  no  puzzling  over  an  idea  he 
could  not  realize.  The  evil  face  smiled 
as  it  looked   at  the  yellow  little   pro- 


101 


gramme,  and  the  long- fingered  hands 
smoothed  out  its  creases  with  a  linger- 
ing, loving  touch.  Desire  and  the  fulfil- 
ment of  desire  were  there,  and  into  the 
sonl  had  the  leanness  of  it  entered.  And 
because,  as  he  had  said,  no  man  knows 
tlie  best  of  himself,  but  only  the  worst, 
there  was  but  little  trace  in  the  face  of 
the  man  who  liad  loved  Margery  and 
whom  Margery  had  loved  ;  yet  in  the 
eyes  was  the  trace  of  what  had  been 
lost,  and  if  not  regret,  at  least  the  long- 
ing to  be  able  to  regret.  Tlie  better  part 
was  not  wholly  dead,  though  half  smoth- 
ered under  the  weight  of  evil.  As  he 
painted  he  began  to  realize  that  it  would 
be  so.  Had  Margery  been  there,  he  felt 
the  better  part  would  have  been  record- 
ed too;  but  the  devil  is  a  highwayman 
who  waits  for  men  who  are  alone,  and 
he  is  stronger  than  a  solitary  man, 
though  he  be  St.  Anthony  himself.    But 


102 


Margery  was  away,  and  her  absence  was 
almost  as  the  draught  that  transformed 
Jekjll  into  Hyde.  So  for  those  two 
days  he  worked  alone,  as  he  had  never 
worked  before,  but  as  he  has  often 
worked  since,  utterly  absorbed  in  his 
painting,  and  eating  ravenously,  but  for 
a  few  moments  only,  when  his  food  was 
brouo^ht  to  him.  As  the  hours  went  on 
the  conviction  came  over  him  that  lie 
was  right  both  about  the  strange  fear 
he  had  spoken  of  to  Margerj^  and  about 
the  other  fear  of  which  he  had  spoken 
to  none.  His  conscious  self  seemed  to 
be  passing  into  the  portrait,  and  one  by 
one,  like  drops  of  bitter  water,  his  past 
life  flowed  higher  and  higher  round 
him.  Far  off  he  thought  he  could  see 
Margery,  but  she  gave  no  sign.  She 
did  not  beckon  to  him  to  come,  she  was 
not  alive  to  the  dansjer  of  the  risinsf 
waters.     Soon  it  would  be  too  late. 


103 


The  first  evening,  after  the  dayh'ght 
had  fallen  and  he  could  no  longer  paint, 
he  threw  himself  down  on  the  sofa.  The 
work  of  the  last  few  days  stood  opposite 
him,  and  the  red  glow  of  the  sunset,  not 
yet  quite  faded  from  the  sky,  still  made 
it  clearly  visible,  though  the  value  of  the 
colors  was  lost.  Frank  felt  like  a  man 
who,  after  a  long,  sleepless  night  of  pain, 
feels  that  if  only  he  could  forget  every- 
thing for  a  moment  he  might  doze  off 
into  a  slumber  that  would  take  an  hour 
or  two  out  of  life.  But  the  pain,  as  it 
were,  stood  before  him,  mastering  him. 

It  may  only  have  been  that  his  nerves, 
abnormally  excited  after  the  strain  of 
working,  played  him  false ;  but  it  seemed 
to  him  that,  in  spite  of  the  fading  light, 
the  portrait  \vas  as  clear  as  ever;  and  as 
he  was  sitting  wondering  at  this,  half 
encouraging  himself  to  believe  it,  he 
was  suddenly  aware  that  the  figure  he 


104 


had  painted  cast  a  shadow  on  to  the 
background  which  he  had  never  put 
there,  xis  he  had  painted  it,  the  shadow 
fell  on  the  left  side  of  the  face,  but  now 
it  seemed  that  the  shadow  was  on  the 
right  side  of  the  face,  exactly  as  it  would 
naturally  be  cast  by  the  light  coming 
from  the  window.  At  that  moment  he 
knew  what  fear  w^as  —  cold  fear  that 
clutches  at  the  heart — and  he  sat  there  a 
moment  unable  to  move,  almost  expect- 
ing to  hear  it  speak  to  him.  Then,  with 
an  effort  of  will  so  strong  that  it  seemed 
like  a  straining  of  the  body,  he  walked 
up  to  it,  turned  it  round  to  the  wall,  and 
left  the  room. 

That  night  he  had  an  odd  dream,  the 
result  again  of  the  excitement  of  the  day, 
but  so  strangely  natural  that  he  hardly 
knew  next  morning  whether  it  had  hap- 
pened or  not.  He  dreamed  he  went 
back  to  the  studio,  finding  everything 


105 


exactly  as  lie  had  left  it — the  portrait 
turned  with  its  face  to  the  wall,  and  his 
brushes  and  palette  where  he  had  laid 
them  down  when  it  had  become  too  dark 
to  paint.  The  servants  had  brought  in 
lights,  and  had  laid  the  day's  paper  on 
the  table.  He  was  conscious  of  utter 
weariness  of  mind  and  body,  and  he 
longed  for  Margery,  but  knew  that  she 
was  away.  The  yellow  programme  of 
the  Cafe  Chantant  lay  on  a  shelf  of  the 
bookcase,  where  he  had  put  it  in  the 
leaves  of  Jekyll  and  Hyde^  and  he 
took  the  two  down  together,  as  he  had 
done  a  few  days  before,  and  mechani- 
cally his  mind  again  retraced  the  life  it 
had  before  suggested  to  him.  Suddenly 
an  utter  loathing  of  it  all,  more  com- 
plete than  he  had  ever  felt,  came  over 
liim,  and  he  tried  to  tear  the  programme 
up.  But  it  seemed  to  be  made  of  a  thin 
sheet  of  some   hard   substance,  and  it 


106 


would  not  tear.  Then  he  tried  to  crush 
it  under  his  foot,  but  it  would  not  even 
bend.  The  bitter,  unimaginable  agony 
of  not  being  able  to  destroy  it  awoke 
him,  and  he  found  morning  had  come. 

All  that  day  he  worked,  and  once 
again  as  evening  fell  he  sat  on  the  sofa, 
staring  blankly  at  what  he  had  done. 
Once  asrain  the  shadow  shifted  on  the 
painted  face,  and  fell  where  the  light 
from  the  window  would  naturally  cast 
it,  and  once  again  cold  fear  clutched  at 
his  heart.  At  that  moment  he  heard 
steps  along  the  passage,  steps  which  he 
knew,  and  Margery  entered. 

"  Frank,"  she  said,  opening  the  door, 
"are  you  there?" 

A  long  figure  sprang  off  the  sofa 
and  ran  across  the  room  to  her,  half 
smothering  her  in  caresses. 

"  Oh,  Margery,  I'm  so  glad  you've 
come,"  he  said —  "  so  glad.     You  don't 


107 


know  what  it  has  been  without  3^00. 
Margery,  promise  you  won't  go  away 
again  till  it  is  finished.  You  won't  go 
away  again,  will  you  ?" 

Margery  shuddered  and  drew  back  a 
moment,  she  hardly  knew  why. 

"  Why,  Frank,  what's  the  matter  ?" 
she  asked.  "Have  you  seen  a  ghost — 
or  what  ?" 

*'  The  place  is  full  of  ghosts,"  said  he. 
"  But  they  won't  trouble  me  any  more 
now  you've  come  back.  Let's  go  out, 
away  from  here." 

"  But  I  want  to  see  the  portrait  first," 
said  she. 

"  Ah,  the  portrait  1" 

Frank  took  two  quick  steps  to  where 
it  was  standing,  and  wheeled  it  round 
with  its  face  to  the  wall. 

"ISTot  to-night,"  he  said.  "Please 
don't  look  at  it  to-night.  You  can't  see 
it  by  this  light." 


108 


''I  know  I  can't,"  said  she,  "bat  I  only 
wanted  to  peep  at  it  to  see  if  it  had  got 
on." 

"  It  lias  got  on,"  said  Frank,  "  it  has 
got  on  wonderfnlly.  But  don't  look 
at  it  to-night.  It  is  terrible  after  sun- 
set." 

Margery  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  so  silly,"  she  said. 
"  However,  I  don't  mind  waiting  till 
to-morrow.     Is  it  good  ?" 

"  Come  out  of  this  place,  and  I'll  tell 
you  about  it." 

Outside  the  west  was  still  luminous 
with  the  sunken  sun,  and  as  they 
stepped  out  on  to  the  terrace  Margery 
turned  to  look  at  Frank.  Ilis  face 
seemed  terribly  tired  and  anxious,  and 
there  were  deep  shades  beneath  his  eyes. 
But  again,  as  a  few  moments  before  in 
the  shadow,  she  involuntarily  shrank 
from  him.    There  was  somethinir  in  his 


109 


face  more  than  what  mere  weariness 
and  anxiety  would  produce — something 
she  had  seen  in  the  face  he  had  sketched 
two  days  ago,  and  the  something  she 
knew  she  had  shrunk  from  before, 
though  she  had  not  seen  it.  But  in 
a  moment  she  pulled  herself  together; 
if  she  were  going  to  go  in  for  fantastic 
fears  too,  the  allowance  of  sanity  be- 
tween them  would  not  be  enough  for 
daily  consumption.  Frank,  however, 
noticed  it  at  once. 

"  Ah,  you  too,"  he  said,  bitterly — 
"  even  you  desert  me." 

Margery  took  hold  of  his  arm. 

"Don't  talk  sheer,  silly  nonsense," 
she  said.  "  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean.  I  know  what's  the  matter  with 
you.  You've  been  working  all  day  and 
not  going  out." 

"  Yes,  I  know  I  have.  I  couldn't 
help  it.     But  never  mind  that  now.     I 


110 


have  got  you  back.  Margery,  yon 
don't  giv^e  me  np  really,  do  you  ?" 

'"Frank,  what  do  you  mean?"  slie 
asked. 

"I  —  I  mean  —  I  mean  nothing.  I 
don't  know  what  I  am  saying.  I've 
been  \vorking  too  hard,  and  I  have  got 
dazed  and  stupid." 

He  turned  to  look  at  the  blaze  on  the 
waters  to  the  west. 

"  Ah,  how  beautiful  it  is !"  he  ex- 
claimed. "I  wish  I  were  a  landscape- 
painter.  But  you  are  more  beautiful, 
Margery.  But  it  is  safer  to  be  a  land- 
scape-painter, so  much  safer !" 

Mai'gery  stopped  and  faced  him. 

"Now,  Frank,  tell  me  the  truth. 
Have  you  been  out  since  I  left  3'ou  yes- 
terday morning?" 

"No." 

"How  long  have  you  been  working 
each  day  ?" 


Ill 


"I  don't  know.  I  didn't  look  at  my 
watch.  All  day,  I  suppose ;  and  the 
days  are  long  —  terribly  long  —  and 
the  nights  too.  The  nights  are  even 
longer,  but  one  can't  work  then." 

Margery  was  frightened,  and,  being 
frightened,  she  got  angry  with  herself 
and  him. 

"  Oh,  you  really  are  too  annoying," 
she  said,  with  a  stamp  of  her  foot. 
"  You  get  yourself  into  bad  health  by 
overworking  and  not  taking  any  exer- 
cise—  you've  got  the  family  liver,  you 
know — and  then  you  tell  me  the  house 
is  full  of  ghosts,  and  conjure  up  all  sorts 
of  absurd  fancies  about  losing  your  per- 
sonality, frightening  yourself  and  me. 
Frank,  it's  too  bad  !" 

Frank  looked  up  suddenly  at  her. 

"  You  too  ?  Are  you  frightened 
too?  God  help  me  if  you  are  fright- 
ened too!" 


112 


"Xo,  I'm  not  frightened,''  said  Mar- 
gery, "but  I'm  angrj  and  asliamed  of 
jou.  You're  no  better  than  a  silly 
child.-' 

''  Margery,"  said  he,  in  his  lowest 
audible  tone,  "  I'll  never  touch  the  pict- 
ure again  if  you  wish.  Tell  me  to  de- 
stroy it  and  I  will,  and  we'll  go  for  a 
holiday  together.  I — I  want  a  holiday; 
I'ye  been  working  too  hard.  Or  it 
would  be  better  if  you  went  in  very 
quietly  and  cut  it  up.  I  don't  want  to 
go  near  it.  It  doesn't  like  rae.  Tell 
me  to  destroy  it." 

"  lio,  no'.''  cried  Margery,  "  that's  the 
very  thing  I  will  not  do.  And  fancy 
saying  you  want  a  holiday  I  You've 
just  had  two  months'  holiday.  But 
that's  no  reason  why  you  should  work 
like  a  lunatic.  Of  course  any  one  can 
go  mad  if  they  like — it's  only  a  question 
of  whether  vou  think  you  are  o:oing  to." 


113 


"  Margery,  tell  me  truthfully,"  said 
Frank,  "  do  you  think  I  am  going 
mad  ?" 

"Of  course  I  don't.  I  only  think 
you  are  verj^,  very  silly.  But  I've 
known  that  ever  since  I  knew  you  at 
all.     It's  a  great  pity." 

They  strolled  up  and  down  for  a  few 
moments  in  silence.  The  magic  of 
Margery's  presence  was  beginning  to 
^vork  on  Frank,  and  after  a  little  space 
of  silence"  he  laughed  to  himself  almost 
naturally. 

"Marger}^  you  are  doing  me  good," 
he  said.  "  I've  been  terribly  lonely 
without  you." 

"And  terribly  silly,  it  appears." 

"Perhaps  I  have.  Anyhow,  I  like 
to  hear  you  tell  me  so.  I  should  like 
to  think  I  had  been  silly,  but  I  don't 
know." 

"I'm  afraid  if  you've  hccu  silly  the 


114 


portrait  will  be  silly  too,"  said  she.  "  Is 
it  sillj,  Frank?" 

"  It's  wonderful,"  said  he,  suddenly 
stopping  short.  "  It  is  not  only  like 
me,  bat  it's  me  —  at  least,  if  you  will 
stop  with  me  while  I  work  it  will  be 
all  me.  I  shall  feel  safer  if  you  are 
there." 

"  Then  I  won't  be  there,"  said  Mar- 
gery. "  You  are  not  a  child  any  longer, 
and  you  must  work  alone.  You  always 
say  you  can't  work  if  any  one  else  is 
there." 

"  Well,  I  don't  suppose  it  matters," 
said  Frank,  with  returning  confidence. 
"  The  fact  that  I  know  you  are  in  the 
house  will  be  enough.  But  the  portrait 
— it's  wonderful !  I  can't  think  wliy  I 
loathe  it  so." 

"  You  loathe  it  because  you  have  been 
working  at  it  in  a  ridiculous  manner," 
said  Margery.     "  To-morrow  I  regulate 


115 


your  day  for  you.  I  shall  leave  yon 
your  morning  to  yourself,  and  after 
lunch  you  shall  come  out  with  me  for 
two  hoars  at  least.  We  will  go  up  some 
of  those  little  creeks  where  we  went 
two  years  ago.  Come  in  now.  It's 
nearly  dinner-time." 

When  they  were  alone  and  a  por- 
trait was  in  progress  they  often  sat  in 
the  studio  after  dinner;  but  to-night, 
when  Margery  proposed  it,  Frank  start- 
ed up  from  where  he  was  sitting. 

"No,  Margery,"  he  said,  "please  let 
us  sit  here.  I  don't  want  to  go  to  the 
studio  at  all." 

"It's  the  scene  of  your  crime,"  said 
Margery. 

Frank  turned  pale. 

"What  crime?"  he  asked.  "What 
do  you  know  of  my  crimes  ?" 

Margery  put  down  the  paper  she  was 
reading  and  burst  out  laughing. 


116 


"  You  really  are  too  ridiculous,"  she 
said.  "  Are  you  and  I  going  to  play 
the  second  act  of  a  melodrama  ?  Your 
crime  of  working  all  day  and  taking  no 
exercise." 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  said  Frank.  "  Well,  don't 
let  us  visit  the  scene  of  my  crimes  to- 
night." 

Margery  had  determined  that,  what- 
ever Frank  did,  she  would  behave  quite 
naturally,  and  not  allow  herself  to  in- 
dulge even  in  disturbing  thoughts.  So 
she  laughed  again,  and  wiped  off  Frank's 
remark  from  her  mind. 

Otherwise  his  behavior  that  evening 
was  quite  reassuring.  Often  when  he 
was  painting  he  had  an  aversion  to  being 
left  alone  in  the  intervals,  and  though 
this  perhaps  was  more  marked  than  usu- 
al, Margery  did  not  allow  it  to  disquiet 
her.  The  painting  of  a  portrait  was 
always   rather   a   trying   time,  though 


117 


Frank's  explanation  of  this  did  not  seem 
to  lier  in  the  least  satisfactory. 

"When  one  paints,"  he  had  said  to 
her  once,  "one  is  much  more  exposed 
to  other  influences.  One's  soul,  so  to 
speak,  is  on  the  surface,  and  I  want 
some  one  near  me  who  will  keep  an  eye 
on  it,  and  I  feel  safe  if  I  have  your  eye 
on  me,  Margery.  You  know,  when  re- 
ligious people  have  been  to  church  or 
to  a  revivalist  meeting,  they  are  much 
more  susceptible  to  what  they  see, 
whether  it  is  sin  or  sanctity ;  that  is 
just  because  their  souls  have  come  to 
the  surface.  It  is  very  unwise  to  go  to 
see  a  lot  of  strange  people  when  you 
are  in  that  state.  No  one  knows  what 
influence  they  may  have  on  you.  But 
I  know  what  influence  you  have  on 
me." 

"  I  wish  my  influence  would  make 
you  a  little  less  silly,"  she  had  replied. 


118 


MargeiT  ^YGnt  to  bed  qnito  liapp}-  in 
her  mind,  except  on  one  point.  She 
had  been  gifted  by  nature  with  a  superb 
serenity  whicli  it  took  much  blustering 
wind  to  ruffle,  and  in  the  main  Frank's 
beliavior  was  different,  not  in  kind,  but 
only  in  degree,  from  what  she  had  seen 
before  when  he  was  painting.  lie  al- 
ways got  nervous  and  excited  over  a 
picture  which  he  really  gave  himself  up 
to;  he  always  talked  ridiculous  non- 
sense about  personalities  and  influences, 
and  though  his  childlike  desire  to  be 
with  her  when  he  was  not  working 
was  more  accentuated  than  usual,  she 
drew  the  very  natural  conclusion  that 
he  was  more  absorbed  than  usual  in  his 
work. 

But  there  was  one  point  which  trou- 
bled her:  she  had  Cjuite  unaccountably 
shrunk  from  him  when  he  ran  to  meet 
her  across  the  studio,  and  she  had  shrunk 


119 


from  him  again  when  she  saw  his  face. 
She  told  lierself  that  this  was  her  own 
silliness,  not  his,  and  that  it  was  ridicu- 
lous of  her  to  try  to  cure  Frank  of  his 
absurdities  while  she  was  so  absurd  her- 
self. She  had  shrunk  back  involunta- 
rily, as  if  from  an  evil  thing. 

"  How  absurd  and  ridiculous  of  me," 
she  said  to  herself,  as  she  settled  her- 
self in  bed.  "  Frank  is  Frank,  and  it  is 
his  idea  that  he  is  ceasing  or  will  cease 
to  be  Frank  which  I  have  thought  all 
along  is  so  supremely  silly,  and  which 
I  think  supremely  silly  still.  Yet  I 
shrank  from  him  as  I  would  from  a 
man  who  had  committed  a  crime." 

Then  suddenly  another  thought  came 
to  join  this  one  in  her  brain :  "  What 
crimes?  What  do  you  know  of  my 
crimes?" 

The  contact  and  the  electric  spark 
had  been  instantaneous,  forshe  wrenched 


120 


the  two  tlionglits  apart.  But  they  had 
come  together,  and  between  them  they 
had  generated  a  spark  of  light. 

And  so,  without  knowing  it,  she  knew 
for  a  moment  what  was  Frank's  secret 
which  he  dared  not  tell  lier. 


CHAPTER  VII 

•  Frank  got  up,  as  his  custom  was,  very 
early  next  morning,  and  went  straight 
to  the  studio  ;  and  Margery,  keeping  to 
the  resolve  of  the  night  before,  left  him 
alone  all  morning.  She  had  sent  his 
breakfast  in  to  him,  but  ate  hers  alone 
in  her  morning-room. 

The  knowledge  that  she  was  with 
him  had  had  a  quieting  effect  on  Frank, 
and  he  had  slept  deep  and  dreamlessly. 
As  he  walked  along  the  passage  to  his 
studio  he  felt  that  he  hardly  feared 
what  he  would  find  there.  How  could 
the  ghost  of  what  was  dead  in  him 
have  any  chance,  so  to  speak,  against 
the  near,  living  reality  of  Margery  and 


122 


Margery's  love  ?  AVas  not  good  more 
powerful  than  evil  I  But  when  he  en- 
tered the  studio  and  had  wheeled  the  por- 
trait back  into  its  place,  the  supremacy  of 
one  side  of  his  nature  over  the  other  was 
reversed  instantaneously — almost  with- 
out consciousness  of  transition.  The 
power  which  the  thing  his  hands  had 
been  working  out  for  the  last  few  days 
had  acquired  was  becoming  overwhelm- 
ing. When  Margery  was  with  him, 
actually  with  him,  she  still  held  np  his 
better  part ;  but  when  he  was  alone  with 
this,  all  that  was  good  sank  like  lead  in 
an  unplumbed  sea.  He  was  like  some 
heathen  who  makes  with  his  own  hands 
an  idol  of  stone  or  wood,  and  then  bows 
down  before  that  which  he  himself 
made,  believing  that  it  is  lord  over  him. 
All  morning  Margery  successfully 
fono:ht  aojainst  her  inclination  to  o^o  to 
Frank,  for   she  was  clear  in  her  own 


123 


mind  that  he  had  to  work  out  his  salva- 
tion alone.  He  was  afraid  of  being 
alone,  and  the  only  way  to  teach  him 
not  to  be  afraid  was  to  let  him  learn  in 
solitude  that  there  was  nothing  to  be 
afraid  of.  So  she  yawned  an  hour 
away  over  a  two -volume  novel  by  a 
popular  author,  wrote  a  letter  to  her 
mother,  ordered  dinner,  and  tried  to 
think  she  was  very  bus)\  But  it  was 
with  a  certain  sense  of  relief  that  she 
heard  the  clock  strike  one,  and,  shut- 
ting up  her  book,  she  went  to  the 
studio. 

Frank  was  standing  with  his  back  to 
the  door,  and  did  not  look  up  from  his 
work  when  she  entered.  She  came  up 
behind  him  and  saw  what  he  had  wished 
her  not  to  see  the  night  before,  and 
understood  why.  He  always  worked 
rapidly  though  never  hurriedly,  and  she 
knew  at  once  what  the  finished  picture 


124 


would   be   like.      The  "idea"  was   re- 
corded. 

She  gave  a  sudden  start  and  a  little 
cry  as  sharp  and  involuntary  as  the 
cvy  of  physical  pain,  for  the  meaning 
of  the  first  rouo:h  sketch  whicli  had 
puzzled  her  was  now  worked  out,  and 
she  saw  before  her  the  face  of  a  guilty 
man.  She  shrank  and  shuddered  as 
she  had  shrunk  when  her  husband  ran 
to  meet  her  across  the  studio  the  night 
before,  and  as  she  had  shrunk  from  him 
when  she  saw  his  face,  for  the  face  that 
looked  out  from  that  canvas  was  the 
same  as  her  husband's  face  which  had 
so  startled  and  repelled  her.  It  was 
the  face  of  a  man  who  has  wilfully  sti- 
fled certain  nobler  impulses  for  the 
sake  of  something  wicked,  and  who  was 
stifling  them  still.  It  was  the  face 
of  a  man  who  has  fallen,  and  when 
she  turned  to  look  at  Frank  she  saw 


125 


that  he  had  in  the  portrait  seized  on 
something  that  stared  from  every  line 
of  his  features. 

"  Ah,  Frank,"  she  cried,  "  but  what 
has  happened?  It  is  horrible,  and  you 
— you  are  horrible,  too  !" 

Frank  did  not  seem  to  hear,  for  he 
went  on  painting;  but  she  heard  him 
mnrmur  below  his  breath: 

"  Yes,  horrible,  horrible  !" 

For  the  moment  Margery  lost  her 
nerve  completely.  She  was  incontrol- 
lably  frightened. 

"  Frank,  Frank !"  slie  cried,  hysteri- 
cally. 

Then  she  cursed  her  own  folly.  That 
was  not  the  way  to  teach  him.  She 
laid  one  hand  on  his  arm,  and  with  her 
voice  again  in  control,  "  Leave  off  paint- 
ing," she  said  —  "leave  off  painting  at 
once  and  look  at  me !" 

This    time    he    heard.       Ilis    rii>lit 


126 


liand,  holding  a  brush  filled  with  paint, 
dropped  nervelessly  to  his  side,  and  the 
brush  slid  from  his  lingers  on  to  the 
floor. 

In  that  moment  his  face  changed. 
The  vicious,  guiltj  lines  softened  and 
faded,  and  his  expression  became  that 
of  a  frightened  child. 

"  Ah,  Alarger}',"  he  cried,  "  what  has 
happened?  "Why  were  you  not  here? 
What  have  I  been  doing?'' 

Margery  had  got  between  him  and 
the  picture,  and  before  he  had  finished 
speaking  she  had  wheeled  it  round  with 
its  face  to  the  wall. 

"You've  been  working  long  enough," 
she  said,  ''  and  you  are  coming  out  for 
a  bit." 

"Yes,  that  will  be  nice,"  said  Frank, 
picking  up  the  brush  he  had  dropped 
and  examining  it.  "AYhy,  it  is  quite 
full  of  paint,"  he  added,  as   if  this  re- 


127 


markable  discovery  was  quite  worth 
comment. 

"  You  dear,  how  extraordinary  !"  said 
Margery.  "You  usually  paint  with 
dry  brushes,  don't  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  I've  been  painting  all  morning, 
so  I  have  !"  said  Frank,  in  the  same  list- 
less, tired  voice,  and  his  eye  wandered 
to  the  easel  which  Margery  had  turned 
round. 

"No,  you've  got  to  let  it  alone,"  said 
she,  guessing  his  intention.  "  You  are 
not  going  to  work  any  more  till  this 
afternoon." 

Frank  passed  his  hands  over  his  eyes. 

"  I'm  rather  tired,"  he  said.  "  I  think 
I  won't  go  for  a  walk.  I'll  sit  down 
liere  if  you  will  stop  with  me." 

"Very  good,  for  ten  minutes;  and 
then  you  must  come  out.  It's  a  lovely 
morning,  and  we'll  only  stroll." 

Frank  looked  out  of  the  window. 


138 


"Mj  God  I  it  is  a  lovelj  morning," 
he  said — "it  is  insolently  lovely.  I've 
been  dreaming,  I  think.  Those  trees 
look  as  if  they  were  dreaming,  too.  I 
wonder  if  they  have  such  horrible 
dreams  as  I  ?  I  think  I  nuist  have 
been  asleep.  I  feel  queer  and  only 
half  awake,  and  I've  had  bad  dreams — 
horrid  dreams.'' 

''Did  he  have  nasty  dream^s?"  said  she, 
sympathetically.  "  He  said  he  was  go- 
ino^  to  work  so  hard,  and  he's  dreamed 
instead."' 

Frank  seemed  hardly  to  hear  her. 

"It  began  by  my  wondering  wheth- 
er I  ought  to  go  on  with  that  por- 
trait or  not/'  he  said.  ''I  kept  think- 
ing—" 

"You  shall  go  on  with  it,  Frank," 
broke  in  Marsierv,  suddenlv,  afraid  of 
lettino^  herself  consent  —  "I  tell  vou 
that  you  must  go  on  with  it.'' 


129 


Frank  roused  liimself  at  the  sound  of 
her  eager  voice. 

"  You  don't  understand,"  he  said.  "  I 
know  that  I  am  running  a  certain  risk 
if  I  do.  I  told  3^ou  about  one  of  those 
risks  I  was  running,  didn't  I?  It  was 
that,  partly,  I  was  drawing  about  all 
morning.  I  thought  I  was  in  danger 
all  the  time.  I  was  running  the  risk  of 
losing  myself,  or  becoming  something 
quite  different  to  what  I  am.  I  ran 
the  risk  of  losing  you,  myself — all  I 
care  for,  except  my  Art." 

"And  with  a  big  'A,'  dear?"  asked 
Margery. 

"  With  the  very  biggest  '  A,'  and  all 
scarlet." 

"  The  Scarlet  Letter^''  said  Margery, 
triumphantly,  "  which  you  were  read- 
ing last  week?  That  accounts  for  that 
symptom.  Go  on  and  be  more  explicit !" 

"I  know  you  think  it  is  all  absurd," 


130 


said  Frank,  ''  but  I  am  a  better  judge 
than  3'ou.  I  know  myself  better  than 
you  know  me — better,  please  God,  than 
you  will  ever  know  me.  However,  yon 
won't  understand  that.  But  with  re- 
gard to  what  I  told  you :  when  I  paint 
a  picture,  you  think  the  net  result  is  I 
and  a  picture,  instead  of  I  alone.  But 
you  are  wrong.  There  is  only  I  just  as 
before;  and  inasn:iuch  as  there  is  a  pict- 
ure, there  is  less  of  myself  here  in  my 
clothes." 

"A  picture  is  oil-paint,"  said  Margery, 
"  and  you  buy  that  at  shops." 

"  Yes,  and  brushes  too,"  said  Frank  ; 
"but  a  picture  is  not  only  oil-paint  and 
brushes." 

"Go  on,"  said  Margery. 

"  Well,  have  I  got  any  right  to  do 
it?  In  other  pictures  it  has  not  mat- 
tered because  one  recuperates  by  de- 
grees, and   one  does  not  put  all  one's 


131 


self  into  tliem.  But  painting  this  I 
feel  differently.  I  am  going  into  it, 
slowly  but  inevitabl3\  I  shall  put  all 
I  am  into  it — at  least,  all  I  know  of 
while  I  am  painting ;  and  what  will 
happen  to  this  thing  here"  (he  pointed 
to  himself)  "I  can't  say.  All  the  time 
I  was  painting,  that  thought  with  oth- 
ers was  with  me,  as  if  it  had  been  writ- 
ten in  fire  on  my  brain.  Have  I  got 
any  business  to  run  risks  which  I  can't 
estimate  ?  I  know  I  have  a  certain 
duty  to  perform  to  you  and  others,  and 
is  it  right  for  me  to  risk  all  that  for  a 
painted  thing?" 

He  stood  up. 

"Margery,"  he  said,  "that  is  not  all. 
Shall  I  tell  you  the  rest?  There  is 
another  risk  I  run  much  more  impor- 
tant, and  much  more  terrible.  May  I 
tell  you  ?" 

"No,  you   may  not,"  said   Margery, 


132 


decidedly.  ^'It  simply  makes  these  fan- 
tastic fears  more  real  to  you  to  speak  of 
them.  You  shall  not  tell  me.  And 
now  we  are  going  out.  But  I  have  one 
thing  to  tell  you.  Listen  to  me, 
Frank,"  she  said,  standing  up  and  fac- 
ing him.  "  As  you  said  just  now,  you 
know  nothing  of  the  risk  you  run.  All 
you  do  know  is  that  it  is  in  your  power, 
as  you  believe,  and  as  I  believe,  to  do 
something  really  good  if  you  go  on 
with  that  picture.  I  don't  say  that  I 
shall  like  it,  but  it  may  be  a  splendid 
piece  of  work  without  that.  Are  you 
an  artist,  or  a  silly  child,  frightened  of 
ghosts  ?  1  want  you  to  finish  it  be- 
cause I  think  it  may  teach  you  that 
you  have  a  large  number  of  silly  ideas 
in  your  head,  and  when  you  see  that 
none  of  them  are  fulfilled  it  may  help 
you  to  get  rid  of  them  —  in  fact,  I  be- 
lieve I  want  you  to  finish  it  for  the 


133 


same  reason  for  which  you  are  afraid  to 
finisli  it.  You  say  you  will  lose  your 
personality,  or  some  of  your  personality. 
I  say  you  will  get  rid  of  a  great  many 
silly  ideas.  If  you  lose  that  part  of 
your  personality  I  shall  be  delighted — 
in  fact,  it  is  the  best  thing  that  could 
happen  to  you.  As  for  your  other 
fears,  I  don't  know  what  they  are,  and 
I  don't  want  to  know.  To  speak  of 
them  encourages  you  to  believe  in 
them.  There!  Now  you've  worked 
enough  for  the  present,  and  we'll  go  for 
a  stroll  till  lunch  ;  and  after  lunch  we'll 
go  out  again,  and  you  can  work  for  an- 
other hour  or  two  before  it  gets  dark." 
It  required  all  Margery's  resolution 
and  self-control  to  get  through  this 
speech.  It  was  not  a  pretty  thing  that 
had  looked  out  at  her  from  the  easel, 
and  the  look  she  had  seen  twice  on 
Frank's   face,  and   felt   once,  was   not 


134 


pretty  either.  That  his  work  had  a 
very  definite  and  startling  effect  on 
him  she  knew  from  personal  experi- 
ence, but  that  anything  could  happen 
to  him  she  entirely  declined  to  believe. 
He  was  cross,  irritable,  odious,  as  she 
often  told  him,  when  he  was  interested 
in  his  work,  but  when  it  was  over  he 
became  calm,  unruffled,  and  delightful 
again.  She  was  fully  determined  he 
should  do  this  portrait,  and  to  himself 
she  allowed  that  it  would  be  a  relief 
when  it  was  finished. 

Frank  got  up  at  once  with  unusual 
docility.  As  a  rule,  he  scowled  and 
snarled  when  she  fetched  liim  away 
from  his  work,  and  made  himself  gener- 
ally disagreeable.  This  uncommon  state 
of  things  gave  Margery  great  surprise. 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  say  you'll  be 
blessed  if  you  come?"  she  asked,  mov- 
in£:  towards  the  door. 


135 


"Ah,  I'm  quite  willing  to  come,"  he 
said.  "Why  shouldn't  I  come?  I 
always  would  come  anywhere  with 
you." 

He  followed  her  towards  the  door, 
and  in  passing  suddenly  caught  sight  of 
the  easel.  He  looked  round  like  a  child 
afraid  of  being  detected  in  doing  some- 
thing it  ought  not,  and  before  Margery 
could  stop  him  he  had  taken  two  quick 
steps  towards  it  and  turned  it  round. 
In  a  moment  his  mood  changed. 

"  Do  you  see  that  ?"  he  said  in  a 
wdiisper,  as  if  the  thing  would  overhear 
him.  "  That's  what  I  was  all  the  morn- 
ing when  you  were  not  here,  and  I 
knew  I  oughtn't  to  be  painting.  Wait 
a  minute,  Margy  ;  I  want  to  finish  a  bit 
I  was  working  at  1" 

His  face  grew  suddenly  pale,  and  the 
look  of  guilt  descended  on  it  like  a 
mist,  blotting  out  the  features. 


136 


"  That's  what  you  are  making  of  me," 
he  said.  "  Give  me  my  palette.  Quick! 
I  sha'ii't  be  a  minute." 

But  Margery  caught  up,  as  she  had 
often  done  before,  his  palette  and  brush- 
es from  the  table  where  he  had  left 
them,  and  fled  with  them  to  the  door. 

"  Give  them  to  me  at  once !"  shouted 
Frank,  holdins:  out  his  hand  for  them, 
but  still  looking  at  the  picture. 

Margery  gave  one  long-drawn  breath 
of  pain  and  horror  when  slie  looked  at 
Frank's  face,  and  then,  a  blessed  sense 
of  humor  coming  to  her  aid,  she  broke 
out  into  a  light  laugh  —  half  hysterical 
and  half  amused. 

"Oh,  Frank,"  she  cried,  "you  look 
exactly  like  Irving  in  'Macbeth'  when 
he  says, '  This  is  a  sorry  sight !  I  never 
saw  a  sorrier.' " 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  more  par- 
ticularly at  the  sound  of  her  laugh,  he 


137 


turned  and  looked  at  her,  and  the  hor- 
ror faded  from  his  face. 

"What  have  I  been  saying  ?"  lie  asked. 

"  You  said,  '  Give  me  the  daggers !' 
— oh  no,  Lad  J  Macbeth  says  that.  Well, 
here  they  are.  Come  to  me,  Frank,  and 
I'll  give  you  them." 

Frank  walked  obediently  up  to  her, 
as  she  stood  in  the  entrance  to  the 
passage,  and  as  soon  as  he  was  out- 
side the  studio  she  banged  the  door 
and  stood  in  front  of  it  triumphantly. 

"Here  are  the  daggers,"  she  said, 
"but  you  are  not  going  to  use  them 
now.  You  shall  finish  that  picture,  but 
not  like  a  madman.  And  if  you  look 
like  Macbeth  any  more  I  shall  simply 
die  of  it;  or  I  shall  behave  like  Lady 
Macbeth,  and  then  tliere  will  be  a  pair 
of  us.  I  shall  walk  in  my  sleep  down 
to  the  sea,  and  wash  my  hands  all  day 
till  it  gets  quite  red.  Now  you're  com- 
ing out.     Marcli !" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

After  lunch  Frank  and  Margery 
went  down  to  the  river  and  cruised 
about  in  a  little  boat,  exploring,  as  they 
had  explored  a  hundred  times  before, 
the  unexpected  but  well-known  little 
creeks  which  ran  up  between  the  hum- 
mocks of  the  broad-backed  hills,  shut  in 
and  shadowed  by  delicate-leaved  beech- 
trees.  When  the  tide  was  high  it  was 
possible  to  get  some  way  up  into  these 
wooded  retreats,  and  by  remaining  very 
still,  or  going  quickly  and  silently  round 
a  corner,  you  might  sometimes  catch 
sight  of  a  kingfisher  flashing  up  from 
the  shallows  and  darting  along  the 
lane   of  flecked  sunlight  like  a  jewel 


139 


flung  tbrongli  the  air.  There  had  been 
a  frost,  the  first  of  the  year,  the  niglit 
before,  and  the  broad  -  leaved  docks 
and  hemlocks  linins^  the  banks  had  still 
drops  of  moisture  on  their  leaves  like 
pearls  or  moon -stones  semees  on  to 
green  velvet.  The  woods  had  taken  a 
deeper  autumnal  tint  in  the  last  two 
days,  and  already  the  five-ribbed  chest- 
nut leaves,  the  first  of  all  to  fall,  were 
lying  scattered  on  the  ground.  Every 
now  and  then  a  rabbit  scuttled  away  to 
seek  the  protection  of  thicker  under- 
growth, or  a  young  cock  pheasant,  as 
yet  unmolested,  stood  and  looked  at  the 
intruders. 

Margery  was  surprised  to  find  how 
great  the  relief  of  getting  Frank  away 
from  his  picture  was.  The  horrible 
guilty  look  on  the  portrait's  face,  and, 
more  than  that,  the  knowledge  that  it 
was  a  terril)ly  true  realization   of  lier 


140 


husband's  expression,  disturbed  her 
more  than  she  liked  to  admit  even  to 
herself. 

But  nothing,  she  determined — not  if 
all  the  ghosts  out  of  the  Decameron  sat 
in  her  husband's  ejes — should  make  her 
abandon  her  resolution  of  compelling 
Frank  to  finish  it.  She  did  not  believe 
in  occult  phenomena  of  this  descrip- 
tion ;  no  painting  of  any  portrait  could 
alter  the  painters  nature.  To  get  tired 
and  anxious  was  not  the  same  as  losing 
your  personality ;  the  first,  if  one  was 
working  well  and  hard,  was  inevitable ; 
the  second  was  impossible,  it  was  non- 
sense. Decidedly  she  did  not  believe 
in  the  possibility  of  his  losing  his  per- 
sonality. But  with  all  her  resolutions 
to  the  contrary,  she  could  not  help  won- 
dering what  the  other  fear,  which  she 
had  forbidden  him  to  tell  her,  was. 
Tao-uelv  in  her  own  mind  she  connected 


141 


it  with  that  strange  shudder  she  had 
felt  when  she  saw  him  the  night  hefore; 
and  quite  irrelevantly,  as  it  seemed  to 
her,  the  image  came  into  her  mind  of 
something  hidden  rising  to  the  surface 
— of  the  sea  giving  up  its  dead.  .  .  . 

It  was  on  this  point  alone  she  dis- 
trusted herself  and  all  the  resolutions 
she  had  made.  She  did  not  yet  know 
clearly  what  she  feared,  but  she  realized 
dimly  that  there  was  a  possibility  of  its 
becoming  clearer  to  her,  and  that  when 
it  became  clearer  she  would  have  to  de- 
cide afresb.  At  present  her  one  desire 
was  that  he  should  finish  the  portrait, 
and  finish  it  as  quickly  as  possible.  But 
at  any  rate  she  had  Frank  with  her 
now,  as  she  had  known  him  and  loved 
him  all  their  life  together.  That  love 
she  would  not  risk,  but  at  present  she 
did  not  see  where  the  risk  could  come 
in.     With  her,  and  away  from  the  por- 


143 


trait,  he  was  again  completely  himself. 
He  looked  tired  and  was  rather  silent, 
and  often  when  she  turned  from  her 
place  in  the  bow  (where  she  was  looking 
for  concealed  snags  or  roots  in  the 
water)  to  him,  as  he  punted  the  boat 
quietly  along  with  an  oar,  for  the  stream 
was  narrow  to  row  in,  she  saw  him 
standing  still,  oar  in  hand,  looking  at 
her,  and  when  their  eyes  met  he 
smiled. 

''It  is  like  that  first  afternoon  we 
were  here,  Margy,  isn't  it?"  he  said  on 
one  of  these  occasions.  "Do  you  re- 
member ?  We  got  here  on  a  September 
morning,  after  travelling  all  night  from 
London,  and  after  lunch  we  came  up 
this  very  creek." 

"Yes,  Frank,  and  I  feel  just  as  I  did 
then." 

"  What  did  you  feel  ?" 

"  Why — why,  that  I  had  got  you  all 


143 


to  in3'self  at  last,  and  that  I  did  not 
care  about  anything  else." 

"  Ah,  my  God  !"  cried  Frank,  sud- 
denly. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asked  she. 

Frank  ran  the  boat  into  a  little  hol- 
low made  in  the  side  of  the  creek  by  a 
small  stream,  now  nearly  summer  dry, 
and  came  and  sat  down  on  the  bank  just 
above  her. 

"Margy  dear,"  he  said,  "I  want  to 
ask  you  something  quite  soberly.  I  am 
not  excited  nor  overwrought  in  any  way, 
am  I?  I  am  quite  calm  and  sensible. 
It  is  not  as  if  that  horrible  thing  were 
with  us.  It  is  about  that  I  want  to  talk  to 
you — about  the  picture.  All  this  morn- 
ing, as  I  told  you,  I  knew  I  ought  not 
to  go  on  with  it,  but  I  went  on  because 
it  had  a  terrible  evil  fascination  for  me. 
And  now,  too,  I  know  I  ought  not  to  go 
on  with  it.     It  is  wicked.     This  morn- 


144 


ing  I  thonglit  of  that  afternoon  we 
spent  here  before,  and  I  knew  I  was 
sacrificing  that.  Then  I  did  not  care, 
but  now  joii  are  all  the  world  to  me,  as 
you  always  have  been  except  when  I 
am  with  that  thing.  It  was  that  first 
day  we  came  here  to  this  very  spot  that 
was  fixed  in  my  mind.  And  now  we  are 
here  in  the  same  place,  and  on  just  such 
another  day,  let  us  talk  about  it." 

"  Oh,  Frank,  don't  be  a  coward,"  said 
Margery,  appealingly.  "  You  know  ex- 
actly what  I  think  about  it.  Of  course  all 
my  inclination  goes  with  you, but, but — " 

She  raised  herself  from  the  boat  and 
put  her  hand  on  his  knee. 

"  Frank,  you  don't  doubt  me,  do  you? 
There  is  nothing  in  the  world  I  could 
weigh  against  you  and  your  love,  but 
we  must  be  reasonable.  If  you  had  a 
very  strong  presentiment  that  you  would 
be  drowned  as  we  sailed  home  I  should 


145 


very  likely  be  dreadfully  uncomfortable, 
but  I  wouldn't  have  you  walk  back  in- 
stead for  anything.  There  are  many 
things  of  which  we  know  nothing — pre- 
sentiments, fears,  all  the  horrors,  in  fact 
— and  it  would  be  like  children  to  take 
them  into  our  reckoning  or  let  them 
direct  us.  It  is  for  your  sake,  not  mine, 
that  I  want  you  to  go  on  with  that  por- 
trait. If  I  followed  my  inclination  I 
should  say,  '  Tear  it  up  and  let  us  sit 
here  together  for  ever  and  ever.'  " 

Frank  leaned  forward  and  spoke  en- 
treatingl3\ 

"  Margy,  tell  me  to  tear  it  up — ah, 
do,  dear,  and  you  may  do  with  me  what- 
ever you  wish  —  only  tell  me  to  de- 
stroy it  !'* 

Margery  shook  her  head  hopelessly. 

"Don't  disappoint  me,  Frank,"  she 
said.  "  I  care  for  nothing  in  the  world 
compared   to    you ;    but   what   reason 

10 


146 


could  I  give  for  doing  this?  I  think 
you  often  get  excited  and  upset  over 
your  work,  but  that  is  worth  while,  be- 
cause you  do  good  work  and  you  are 
not  permanently  upset.  You  wouldn't 
give  up  being  an  artist  for  that.  And 
if  I  saw  any  reason  for  telling  you  to 
stop  this,  I  would  do  it.  It  is  because 
I  care  for  you  and  all  your  possibiHhes 
that  I  tell  you  to  go  on  with  it." 

iVIargery  thought  for  a  moment  of  the 
portrait  and  the  terrible  likeness  it  bore 
to  her  husband,  and  she  hesitated.  But 
no ;  the  whole  thing  was  too  fantastic, 
too  vaojue.  She  did  not  even  know  what 
she  was  afraid  of. 

^'It  isn't  the  pleasant  or  tlie  easy 
course  I  am  taking,"  she  continued. 
"  That  wasn't  a  pleasant  look  on  your 
face  when,  you  shouted  at  me  to  give 
you  your  palette  this  morning?" 

Frank  looked  puzzled. 


147 


''  What  did  I  do  ?"  he  asked.  "  When 
did  I  shout  at  you?" 

"  This  morning,  just  before  we  came 
out.  You  shouted  awfully  loud,  and 
you  looked  like  Macbeth.  It  is  just  be- 
cause I  don't  want  you  to  look  like 
Macbeth  permanently  that  I  insist  on 
your  going  on  with  it.  I  want  you  to 
get  Macbeth  out  of  your  system.  That 
fantastic  idea  of  yours,  that  you  would 
rnn  a  risk,  was  the  original  cause  of 
all  this  nonsense,  and  when  you  have 
finished  the  picture  and  seen  that  you 
have  run  no  risk,  you  will  know  that  I 
am  right." 

Frank  stood  up. 

"  To-morrow  may  be  too  late,"  he  said. 
"Do  you  really  tell  me  to  go  on  with  it?" 

"  Frank,  dear,  don't  be  melodramatic. 
You  were  just  as  nice  as  you  could  be 
all  the  way  up  here.  Yes,  I  tell  you  to 
go  on  with  it." 


148 


Frank's  arms  dropped  by  his  side, 
and  for  a  moment  he  stood  qnite  stilL 
The  leaves  whispered  in  the  trees,  and 
the  rippling  stream  tapped  against  the 
boat.  Then  for  a  moment  the  breeze 
dropped,  and  the  boat  swung  round  with 
the  current.  The  water  made  no  sound 
against  it  as  it  moved  slowly  round,  and 
there  was  silence  —  tense,  absolute  si- 
lence. 

Then  Margery  lay  back  in  the  boat 
and  laughed.  Her  laugh  sounded  strange 
in  her  own  ears. 

"I  am  sure  this  is  one  of  the  occa- 
sions on  which  we  ought  to  hear  only 
the  beating  of  our  own  hearts ;  but,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  I  don't.  Come,  Frank, 
don't  stand  there  like  a  hop-pole." 

Frank  slowly  let  his  eyes  rest  on  her, 
but  he  did  not  answer  her  smile. 

Margery  paused  a  moment. 

"Come,"  she  said  again,  "let  us  go 


149 


a  little  higher.  There  is  plenty  of 
water." 

Frank  pushed  the  boat  ont  from  the 
bank  and  jumped  in. 

"Then  it  is  all  over," lie  said.  "I  must 
go  home  at  once.  I  must  get  on  with 
the  portrait  immediately.  I  cannot  last 
if  I  am  not  quick.  There's  no  time  to 
lose,  Margy.  Please  let  me  get  back  at 
once." 

He  paused  a  moment. 

"Margy, give  me  one  kiss, will  you?" 
he  said.  "Perhaps,  perhaps —  Ah, 
my  darling,  cannot  you  do  what  I 
ask?" 

He  had  raised  himself  and  clung 
round  her  neck,  kissing  her  again  and 
again.  But  she,  afraid  of  yielding, 
afraid  of  sacrificing  her  reason  even  to 
that  she  loved  best  in  the  world,  un- 
wound his  arms. 

"No,  Frank,  I  have  said  I  cannot. 


150 


Oil,  my  clear,  don't  yon  understand  ? 
Frank,  Frank !" 

But  lie  shook  his  head  and  took  up 
the  oar. 

"Why  are  you  in  such  a  hurry?"  she 
asked,  after  a  moment,  seeing  he  did 
not  look  at  her  again.  "  What  time  is 
it  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Frank,  quickly. 
"I  only  know  that  if  I  am  to  finish  it 
I  must  finish  it  at  once.  It  will  take  us 
i>early  an  hour  to  get  home,  and  it  is  too 
dark  to  work  after  five." 

The  wind,  since  that  sudden  lull,  had 
blown  only  fitfully  by  gusts,  and  by  the 
time  they  had  emerged  into  the  estuary 
it  had  died  out  altogether. 

"  The  wind  has  dropped,"  said  he. 
"  The  winds  and  the  stars  fitrht  a^rainst 
me.     We  sha'n't  be  able  to  sail." 

He  took  up  the  sculls,  and  rowed  as 
if  he  were  rowing  a  race. 


151 


*'  Wliat's  the  matter?"  asked  Margery. 
"Why  are  you  in  such  a  hurry?  It  is 
not  late." 

''  You  don't  understand,"  he  said. 
"  There  is  a  hurry.  I  nuist  get  back. 
Oil,  why  can't  you  understand  ?  I  must 
have  you  or  it,  and  you  —  you  have 
given  me  up." 

^'  Frank,  what  do  you  mean  ?"  asked 
Margery,  bewilderedly. 

"  You  have  given  me  up  for  it — it, 
that  painted  horror  you  saw,  that — 
that —  Margery,  do  listen  to  me  just 
once  more.  You  don't  understand, dear, 
but  I  don't  mind  that.  Only  trust  me; 
only  tell  me  to  stop  painting  it — to  de- 
stroy it !" 

He  leaned  on  his  oars  a  moment, 
waiting  for  her  answer. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?"  she 
asked.  *'  Why  do  you  speak  to  me  like 
that?    AVhat  nonsense  it  all  is!     I  can't 


15-^ 


advise  you  to  give  it  np  because  I  tliink 
it  much  better  for  you  that  you  should 
go  on  with  it." 

He  waited  for  her  answer,  and  then 
bent  to  the  oars  again.  Tiie  green  wa- 
ter hissed  by  them  as  the  light  boat  cut 
through  the  calm  surface.  Margery  was 
sitting  in  the  stern  managing  the  rud- 
der, and  it  required  all  her  nerve  to 
guide  the  boat  among  the  rocks  that 
stood  out  from  the  shallower  water. 
Frank's  terrible  earnestness  troubled 
her,  but  it  did  not  shake  her  resolu- 
tion. Look  at  it  what  way  she  might, 
her  deliberate  conclusion  was  that  it 
was  better  he  should  go  on  with  it. 
There  was  no  reason — there  really  was 
no  reason  why  he  should  not,  and  there 
was  every  reason  why  he  should.  She 
wondered  if  he  had  better  see  a  doctor. 
That  he  was  in  good  health  two  days 
ago  she  knew  for  certain,  but  the  mind 


153 


can  react  upon  the  body,  and  his  mind 
was  certainly  out  of  sorts.  However, 
she  bad  decided  that  the  best  ultimate 
cure  for  his  mind  was  to  finish  the  pict- 
ure, and  she  determined  to  let  things 
be. 

"When  will  it  be  done?''  she  asked, 
after  a  pause. 

''To-morrow,"  said  Frank,  without 
stopping  rowing,  "and  the  part  that  is 
important  will  be  done  to-night.  Don't 
come  into  the  studio,  please,  till  it  is  too 
dark  to  paint.  I  can't  paint  with  you 
there." 

Margery  felt  a  little  hurt  in  her  mind. 
She  had  meant  to  sit  with  him,  as  he 
had  asked  her  to  that  morning.  How- 
ever, it  was  best  to  let  him  have  his  way, 
and  she  said  no  more. 

It  was  scarcely  half  an  hour  after 
they  liad  left  the  creek  that  they  came 
opposite  the  little  iron  staircase  leading 


154 


down  to  the  rocks.  The  tide  was  out, 
and  Frank  beached  the  boat  on  the 
shingle  at  the  bottom  of  the  rocks, 
jumped  out,  and  drew  it  in.  His  pale 
face  was  flushed  and  dripping  with 
sweat. 

"  You'd  better  change  before  joii  be- 
gin work,"  said  Margery,  as  he  helped 
her  out,  "or  you'll  catch  cold." 

Frank  burst  out  with  a  grating,  un- 
natural laugh. 

''  Change  !  I  should  think  I  am  go- 
ino^  to  chan<i^e !  I  wonder  if  you'll  like 
the  change  I" 

He  walked  on  in  front  of  her,  and 
when  he  reached  the  terrace  broke  into 
a  run.  Margery  heard  the  door  of  the 
studio  bang  behind  him. 


CHAPTER    IX 

Margery  followed  Frank  more  slow- 
ly up  to  the  house.  She  had  won  her 
point ;  she  had  refused  in  the  face  of  all 
her  own  inclinations  and  his  feelino^s  to 
tell  him  to  leave  the  picture  unfinished 
or  to  destroy  it,  and  having  succeeded 
in  that  for  which  she  had  been  so  in- 
tensely anxious,  the  reaction  followed. 
Left  to  herself,  she  wondered  if  she  had 
been  right;  whether  she  were  wise  to 
trust  to  reason  rather  than  instinct; 
whether  she  had  not  perhaps  in  some 
dim,  uncomprehended  way  put  Frank 
in  a  position  of  terrible  danger.  But 
where  or  what,  in  the  name  of  all  that 
is  rational,  could  the  danger  be  ?     Yet 


156 


there  rose  up  before  her,  as  if  in  answer 
to  her  question,  the  remembrance  of 
Frank's  face  while  he  was  painting. 
Could  she  account  for  that  rationally? 
She  was  bound  to  confess  she  could 
not. 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  know  that  it 
would  soon  be  over.  The  important 
part  Frank  had  told  her  would  be  done 
to-daj,  in  an  hour  or  two.  In  the  whole 
range  of  human  possibilities  she  could 
think  of  nothing  which  could  happen 
in  an  hour  or  two  which  would  justify 
Frank's  fears.  lie  was  not  well,  she 
thought ;  but  she  regarded  the  finishing 
of  this  portrait  as  a  sort  of  slight  sur- 
gical operation  which  would  remove 
the  cause  of  his  mental  disease  from 
which  his  bodily  indisposition  sprang. 

For  the  present  she  had  to  get  through 
an  hour  or  two  alone,  and  she  busied 
herself  with  small,  unnecessary  duties. 


157 


and  read  more  of  the  small,  unnecessary 
book,  by  a  popular  author,  -which  we 
have  referred  to  before.  A  little  before 
five  the  post  came  in,  and  among  other 
letters  for  her  was  a  note  from  Jack 
Armitage. 

''  And  how  goes  the  portrait  ?"  he 
concluded,  "and  am  I  to  be  summoned 
to  see  a  descent  into  Bedlam  or  an  as- 
cent into  Heaven  ?  Oddly  enough,  there 
is  an  artist  here  of  transcendental  ten- 
dencies who  holds  exactly  the  same 
views  as  Frank.  He  believes  in  the 
danger  of  losing  one's  personality,  but 
he  also  believes  in  the  danger  of  raising 
ghosts  from  one's  past  life  if  one  paints 
a  portrait  of  one's  self.  Luckily,  Frank 
feels  only  the  danger  of  losing  his  per- 
sonality, and  does  not  think  about  the 
ghost-raising.  I  am  glad  for  his  peace 
of  mind  —  and,  perhaps,  for  you  too — 
that  this  is  so.     To  fisrht  two  sets  of 


158 


ghosts  simultaneously  might  well  be  too 
much  for  one  woman,  even  for  you !" 

Margery  laid  down  the  letter,  and  the 
voice  of  reason  w^ithin  her  became  grad- 
ually less  insistent,  and  then  died  away. 
Frank  had  spoken  of  another  danger 
more  terrible  than  the  one  he  had  told 
her  about,  and  she  w^ould  not  hear  him. 
There  had  been  a  look  on  liis  face  that 
frightened  and  horrified  her,  and  she 
would  not  think  of  it.  Once  on  the 
beach  at  New  Quay  he  had  wished  to 
tell  her  something,  and  she  would  not 
hear  him. 

But  the  thing  was  impossible.  True  ; 
but  she  was  afraid.  She  felt  suddenly 
unable  to  cope  with  his  fears,  now  that 
she  had  beo^un  to  share  them.  Then  Ar- 
mitage's  last  w^ords  came  back  to  her — 
"  Beach  Hotel,  New  Quay.  I  will  come 
at  once." 

Margery  felt    ashamed   of   yielding. 


159 


but  she  justified  her  yielding  to  lier- 
self.  The  presence  of  another  person 
in  the  house  would  be  a  good  thing. 
She  Ivuew  the  absolute  necessity  of  l^eep- 
ing  her  nerves  in  perfect  order,  and 
there  is  nothing  so  infectious  as  disor- 
ders of  the  nerves. 

She  got  her  hat  and  walked  straight 
off  to  the  village  in  order  to  send  the 
telegram.  She  felt  as  if  she  did  not 
even  wish  her  ow^n  servants  to  know 
she  was  doing  it,  and  preferred  to  send 
it  herself  than  giving  it  to  one  of  them. 
The  sun  was  already  sinking  to  its  set- 
ting, but  there  would  be  plenty  of  time 
to  walk  down  and  get  back  before  it  was 
dark.  Frank  had  said  that  the  portrait 
w^as  terrible  after  sunset,  and  though  she 
tried  to  laugh  at  the  thought,  the  laugh 
would  not  come.  Decidedly,  Armitage's 
presence  would  be  a  good  thing. 

It  took  her  a  minute  or  two  to  send 


160 


the  telegram  satisfactorily,  but  event- 
ually she  wrote:  "Nothing  is  wrong, 
but  please  come.     Frank  is  rather  try- 


ing." 


She  left  the  office  and  walked  back 
quickly  up  the  village,  only  to  run  into 
Mrs.  Greenock,  at  the  corner  by  the  vic- 
arage. Though  she  was  anxious  to  get 
back,  it  was  impossible  not  to  exchange 
a  few  words. 

"  And  how  does  the  portrait  get  on  ?" 
asked  that  estimable  woman.  "I  had 
such  a  deeply  interesting  conversation 
with  Mr.  Trevor  about  it  when  we  dined 
at  your  house.  Is  it  wonderful  ?  Is  it 
a  revelation  ?  Does  it  show  ns  what  he 
is,  not  only  what  he  looks  like?" 

"  Frank's  very  much  excited  about 
it,"  said  Margery,  "  which  is  always  a 
good  sign.     I  think  he  is  satisfied." 

"And  when  will  it  be  finished?" 
asked  Mrs.  Greenock.    "  Your  husband 


161 


was  so  good  as  to  tell  me  I  luiglit  see 
it  when  it  was  done.  I  am  lookino^  for- 
ward  to  an  intellectual  as  well  as  an 
artistic  treat." 

"It  ought  to  be  done  to-morrow," 
said  Marger3\  "  He  has  been  working 
very  hard." 

"A  giant,"  murmured  Mrs.  Green- 
ock— "  a  gigantic  personality.  Are  you 
walking  home  ?  May  I  not  accompany 
you  a  little  way  ?  I  too  have  been  hard 
at  work  to-da}",  and  I  have  come  out  to 
get  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  and  perhaps 
an  idea  or  two." 

Mrs.  Greenock  walked  with  Margery 
np  to  the  lodge-gates,  beguiling  the  te- 
dium of  the  way  with  instructive  dis- 
course, and  kept  her  several  moments 
longer  there,  bidding  her  observe  the 
exquisite  glow  in  the  western  sky  where 
the  sun  had  already  gone  down. 

Margery  saw    with   annoyance    that 


162 


Mrs.  Greenock  had  been  quite  right — 
the  sun  had  ah'eady  set,  and  tlie  twi- 
light was  falling  in  darker  and  darker 
layers  over  the  earth  when  she  reached 
the  house.  She  went  quickly  up  the 
passage  leading  to  the  studio  and  open- 
ed the  door. 

Frank  was  standing  on  the  other  side 
of  the  room,  with  his  face  turned  tow- 
ards her,  a  piece  of  crumpled  paper  in 
his  hands.  The  shadow  cast  from  the 
window  fell  on  the  right  side  of  his 
face,  but  in  the  dim  light  she  could  see 
that  there  was  that  expression  of  guilt 
and  horror  on  it  which  she  had  seen 
there  twice  before. 

"  Why,  Frank,"  she  said,  "  you  can't 
paint  by  this  light!" 

Something  stirring  at  her  elbow  made 
her  turn  round  quickly.  Frank  was  sit- 
ting in  a  deep  chair  in  the  shadow,  star- 
ing blankly  before  him. 


163 


She  had  mistaken  the  portrait  for  her 
husband. 

For  a  moment  neither  of  them  spoke 
or  moved.  Then  Frank  got  ont  of  the 
cliair  where  he  was  sitting  and  crossed 
the  room  to  where  the  horrible  fac-sim- 
ile  of  himself  stood  against  the  wall, 
and  putting  himself  unconsciously,  Mar- 
gery felt,  into  the  same  attitude,  turned 
to  her. 

"  I  have  worked  quickly  to-night,"  he 
said.     "I  have  almost  finished." 

Margery  looked  suddenly  back  at  the 
portrait,  and  noticed  with  a  cold,  grow- 
ing horror  that  she  had  been  the  vic- 
tim of  some  illusion.  The  light  from 
the  window  cast  no  shadow  at  all  on  to 
it,  and  the  shadow  on  the  face  was 
painted  on  the  left  side,  not  the  right. 

Frank  paused,  and  Margery  knew 
that   her   telegram    would    be    useless. 


1&4 


The  matter  was  between  lierself  and 
Frank.  If  help  could  reach  him  it 
must  come  from  her.  In  a  moment 
she  understood  all.  The  vague  fear, 
the  disconnected  hints,  the  thing  he 
had  wished  to  tell  her  once  at  Kew 
Quay,  and  once  again  that  morning,  the 
guilty  face,  her  own  shrinking,  formed 
links  of  a  connected  chain.  She  had 
shrunk  from  what  was  evil,  as  Frank 
had  shrunk  from  it  and  loathed  it  when 
she  was  there ;  but  tlie  fascination  of 
which,  interpreted  by  his  artistic  pas- 
sion, he  had  been  unable  to  resist.  His 
own  skill  had  raised  the  thing  that  he 
had  thought  was  dead  into  new  life, 
and  now  it  asserted  its  old  supremacy. 

In  a  few  moments  he  spoke  again. 

"  Do  you  see  how  like  we  are  ?"  he 
said,  speaking  slowly,  as  if  he  had  some 
difficulty  in  finding  words.  "  Xo  won- 
der you  mistook  it  for  me.     You  can- 


105 


not  see  it  properly  in  this  light ;  in  the 
daylight  the  likeness  is  even  more  ex- 
traordinary. Is  it  not  clever  of  me  to 
have  painted  such  a  picture?  There  is 
no  picture  like  it  in  the  world.  It  must 
go  to  the  Academy  next  year,  Margery, 
as  a  posthumous  work.  It  is  a  crea- 
tion.    I  have  made  a  man  !" 

Frank  paused,  but  Margery  said  noth- 
ing. 

"  There  were  some  things  about  me 
you  did  not  know  before — things  which 
were  part  of  me,  and  had  been  vital 
to  me,"  he  went  on.  "  Once  or  twice  I 
wished  to  tell  you  of  them,  but  you 
would  not  hear.  Now  you  see  them. 
I  think  you  cannot  help  seeing  them. 
You  can  see  them  in  the  portrait's  face 
and  in  mine — clearest  in  mine;  but  to- 
morrow they  will  be  quite  as  clear  in 
the  other.  They  say  that  hearing  fir- 
ing  brings  corpses  to  the  surface.     I 


166 


dare  say  it  is  true— at  any  rate,  I  have 
brought  corpses  to  tlie  surface.  They 
are  not  pretty;  corpses  seldom  are." 

Margery  came  a  step  nearer  to  him, 
though  her  flesh  cried  out  against  it. 

"Frank!  Frank!"  she  said. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  said  he.  "  I  wish 
to  tell  you  more.  A  critic  has  no  right, 
as  I  said,  to  criticise  unless  he  knows 
more  about  the  picture  than  the  artist, 
but  the  artist  may  criticise  his  own 
picture.  This  is  m}^  picture — all  mine. 
And  it  is  me.  It  is  all  true.  Do  you 
remember  last  Sunday,  Margy,  when 
Greenock  read  about  the  judgment 
books  being  opened,  and  every  man  be- 
ing judged  by  what  was  written  in 
them  ?  B}'  -  the  -  way,  Mrs.  Greenock 
writes  sonnets.  He  said  she  was  an  ac- 
complished sonneteer.  Well,  do  you 
know  what  those  books  are  ?  They  arc 
nothing   else   than    the  faces,  the    real 


167 


faces,  of  the  men  who  are  being  judged. 
"What  chance  do  jou  think  I  shall  have, 
for  that  is  mj  book  you  see  painted 
there — an  illuminated  manuscript.  Why 
did  you  wish  me  to  do  it  so  much  ? 
Can  you  read  it  all  ?  Can  you  see  the 
Cafe  Chantant  in  it?  Can  you  see 
Paris,  and  the  cruelty  and  the  sweetness 
and  bitterness  of  it  ?  Can  you  see  Claire 
in  it,  petite  Claire,  and  the  end,  the 
wliole  of  it,  the  pleasure,  the  weariness, 
the — the  morgue  ?  Yes,  that  was  where 
I  saw  her  last." 

'•  No,  Frank,  no,"  said  Margery; 
"don't  tell  me." 

"  It  is  not  pleasant,"  said  he.  "  It  is 
not  amusing  to  go  to  hell,  as  I  have 
gone.  This  is  not  a  nice  book  to  read ; 
I  wish  now  I  had  never  written  it — 
'  The  Life  and  Adventures  of  Frank 
Trevor,'  by  himself." 

The   liorror   of   great   darkness    had 


168 


come  on  Margery.  She  felt  the  plivs- 
ical  result,  which  is  stronger  than  all 
things  in  the  world  except  love.  She 
loved  Frank  and  Frank  loved  her. 
There  was  still  a  chance. 

Frank  had  picked  up  from  the  table 
the  little  yellow  programme  which  he 
had  painted  and  held  it  in  his  hands, 
turning  it  over  and  over. 

"It  won't  break,"  he  said,  "it  won't 
bend.  My  God  I  what  am  I  to  do? 
But — but  I  have  written  my  judgment 
book  ;  yet  there  are  some  chapters  which 
I  have  not  written.  I  cannot  remem- 
ber them.  They  were  some  chapters 
you  and  I  wrote  together  about —  But 
you  will  have  forgotten — you  gave  me 
up.  Margy,  cannot  you  remember  what 
they  were  ?  There  was  one  chapter  we 
wrote  down  in  that  little  creek  where 
we  went  to-day." 

Frank  stopped,  and  looked  about  the 


169 


room  as  if  lie  were  searching  for  some- 
thing. In  that  pause  love  triumplied. 
Margery  went  to  him  qiiickl}^  The 
pliysical  revolt  was  dead,  for  she  loved 
him.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der. 

"Frank,"  she  said,  "do  you  remem- 
ber that  you  asked  me  whether  I  wished 
you  to  go  on  with  that  picture?  I  said 
I  did,  but  I  am  here  to  tell  you  that  I 
have  changed  my  mind.  '  I  think  you 
had  better  not  go  on  with  it.  Tear  it 
up,  burn  it.  It  is  not  good;  it  is  dev- 
ilish. And  when  you  have  done  that 
we  will  go  and  find  those  chapters  you 
spoke  of,  which  we  wrote  together,  you 
and  I  alone.  Did  you  think  they  were 
lost  ?  Could  you  not  remember  them  ? 
I  remember  tliem  all.  I  have  them 
quite  safe.  There  are  none  of  them 
lost." 

For  a  moment  a  look  of  intense  re- 


170 


lief  came  over  Frank's  face.  Even  in 
the  darkness  Margery  could  see  that  it 
had  changed  utterly.  She  ghmced  Avith 
sick  horror  at  the  portrait  which  only 
five  minutes  before  she  liad  thought 
was  actually  her  husband.  But  almost 
immediately  he  shook  his  head. 

"No,  I  must  finish  it  now,"  he  said. 
"I  do  not  believe  in  death-bed  repent- 
ance. There  is  very  little  more  to  do, 
for  I  have  worked  quickly  to-day.  Just 
one  thing  wants  doing — a  shadow  is  to 
be  deepened  in  the  mouth.  Do  you  see 
what  I  mean  ?  Ko,  it  is  too  dark  for 
yon  to  see  it,  though  I  can  see  it  quite 
clearly.  I  wish  I  could  explain  to  you 
what  I  mean,  but  you  will  never  under- 
stand. Don't  you  see  it  is  I  who  stand 
there  on  that  easel?  This  thing  which 
you  think  is  me  is  nearly  dead.  It  is 
like  Pygmalion,  isn't  it,  only  the  other 
way  round  ?     He  made  his  statue  come 


171 


to  life,  but  I  have  put  my  life  into  that 
picture.  If  ever  the  story  of  Pygma- 
lion is  true,  I  could  have  done  that ;  it 
is  easier  than  what  I  have  done." 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Margery,  "  I  knew 
the  picture  would  be  a  wonderful  thing. 
But  it  is  too  dark  to  look  at  it  now  and 
too  dark  for  you  to  paint.  Let  us  come 
away,  and  we  will  find  those  chapters 
you  spoke  of.  I  have  got  them  all,  I 
tell  you.  They  seem  to  me  very  good 
and  very  important — quite  as  important 
now,  and  much  better,  than  the  chapters 
you  have  written  there." 

She  put  her  hand  through  Frank's 
arm,and  all  her  soul  went  into  that  touch. 

"  Come,"  she  said ;  "  they  are  not 
here." 

For  one  moment  she  felt  Frank's 
arm  tremble  under  the  loving  press  of 
her  fingers,  but  he  said  nothing  and  did 
not  move. 


172 


"  You  asked  me  to  kiss  you  this  af- 
ternoon,"  she  said  ;  "  and  now,  Frank,  I 
ask  you  to  kiss  me.  Kiss  me  on  tlie 
lips,  for  we  are  husband  and  wife." 

And  standing  by  that  painted  horror 
lie  kissed  her. 

"And  now  come  out  for  a  few  mo- 
ments," said  Margery,  "  for  I  cannot  tell 
you  here." 

Frank  obeyed,  and  together  in  silence 
they  walked  out  on  to  the  terrace. 

"Let  us  sit  down  here,"  said  she, 
"  and  I  will  tell  you  what  you  have  for- 
gotten." 

"  Those  other  chapters  ?"  asked  Frank. 
"I  want  them,  for  the  picture  is  not 
complete." 

"  Yes,  those  other  chapters.  They 
are  very  short.  Just  this,  Frank,  that 
I  loved  you,  and  love  you  now.  I  see 
what  your  fear  was  :  it  was  fear  for  me, 
not  for  yourself.     You  thought  that  if 


173 


you  painted  this  picture  you  would 
have  to  put  something  into  it  which  I 
did  not  know — something  you  were 
afraid  of  my  hearing.  I  know  it,  and 
I  am  not  afraid.  But  the  chapters  we 
wrote  together  are  still  true ;  they  are 
the  truest  part  of  all.  Your  picture  is 
not  complete.  It  wants  the  most  essen- 
tial part  of  all." 

Once  more  she  felt  a  tremor  go 
through  his  arm,  but  still  he  said  noth- 
ing. 

"You  told  me  I  did  not  understand 
what  you  meant,"  she  said,  "  but  I  un- 
derstand now.  And  you  too  did  not 
understand  me  if  you  thought  that  aji}'- 
thing  in  the  world  could  make  any  dif- 
ference to  my  love  for  you.  We  have 
all  of  us  in  our  natures  something  not 
nice  to  look  at,  but  wdiat  we  stand  or 
fall  by  is  our  beautiful  chapters.  You 
cannot  destroy  them,  Frank,  though  you 


174 


tliongbt  you  could,  because  tlicy  belong 
to  me  as  well  as  you,  and  I  will  not 
liave  tbem  destroyed.  You  tboiigbt 
you  bad  lost  tbeni,  but  you  bave  not. 
Tbey  are  bere.  You  may  read  tbem 
now  witb  me." 

Margery  paused,  and  on  tbe  silence 
came  tbe  sudden,  quick -drawn  breatb 
tbat  opens  tbe  gates  of  tears.  In  a  mo- 
ment sbe  felt  Frank's  arms  round  ber, 
and  bis  bands  clasped  about  ber  neck. 

'•  Margy  I  Margy  I"  be  wbispered, 
''bave  you  got  tbem  now,  even  now? 
My  God  I  bow  little  I  knew!  You 
sbrank  from  me,  and  I  tbougbt  you 
bad  given  me  up ;  tbat  tbere  was  notb- 
inof  left  to  me  but  tbat — tbat  borror. 
But  wbat  can  I  do?  My  judgment 
book    is    written.      Is    not    tbat    true 

too  r 

''  Do  you  remember  wbat  you  said  ?" 
asked  Marirerv.     '-Did  vou  not  tell  me 


175 


that  you  loathed  wliat  yon  were  paint- 
ing ?     Why  did  you  loathe  it  ?" 

"AVhy  did  I  loathe  it?  Why,  be- 
cause it  was  —  something  horrible, 
wretched !" 

"  Let  us  go  to  the  studio,"  said  Mar- 

"  No,  no  !"  cried  he  ;  "  anywhere  but 
there." 

"  Come,  Frank,"  she  said,  "you  must 
come  with  me." 

In  the  passage  hung  a  troph}^  made 
of  knives  and  swords  which  Frank  had 
once  bought  in  the  Soudan.  Margery 
took  down  one  of  these,  a  thick  steel 
dagger,  short  and  two-edged.  On  the 
table  below  stood  a  lamp,  and  this  she 
took  in  her  other  hand. 

"  Open  the  door,"  she  said  to  Frank. 

Then  she  gave  the  dagger  into  his 
hand,  and  with  the  lamp,  she  stood  op- 
posite the  picture. 


176 


"Xow!"  she  said. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  feeling  the 
edge  of  the  dagger,  looking  at  Margery. 
Then  with  a  sndden  movement  he 
grasped  the  side  of  the  easel  with  one 
hand,  and  with  the  other  plunged  the 
dagger  througli  the  face. 

^'  You  devil,  3'ou  devil  I*-   he  &aid. 

He  cut  and  stabbed  the  picture  in 
fifty  places.  The  torn  shreds  he  ripped 
off  and  threw  on  the  ground,  trampling 
on  them  or  picking  them  up  to  tear 
them  again,  and  in  a  few  moments  all 
that  there  was  left  was  a  few  shreds 
hanging  from  the  frame. 

Jack  Armitage  arrived  next  day.  He 
never  knew  why  Margery  had  sent  for 
him,  but  she  thanked  him  so  genuinely 
for  coming  that  he  was  not  sorry  he 
came. 

THE    END 


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B     000  008  547     2 


